


Carnival of Souls

by Morgan (morgan32)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Pre-Series, Stanford-Era, hurt!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-31
Updated: 2009-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-02 05:04:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgan32/pseuds/Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-series story: Sam left his family to get away from the world of demons and ghosts. But when that world follows him to Stanford, Sam does the one thing he swore he'd never do: he calls his father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

#### February 2002

"Dean," John said quietly.

Dean sat on the hood of the Impala, staring out to sea. The white-tipped waves crashed on the rocks below them, visible in each flash of lightning. The storm was still far out to sea, but it would hit land before dawn. John felt the first cool splash of rain on his face. Dean stayed where he was, silent and unmoving.

"Dean," John repeated more firmly. He pressed his hand harder against his wound, wincing at the sharp pain and the warmth of blood flowing. "Son," he tried again, "I need your help now."

Lightning flashed again, illuminating the blood spattered on Dean's shirt. It wasn't Dean's blood. The young hunter's hands, too, were red with blood. He was turning the gun over in his hands, getting blood all over it. He didn't look at John.

One hand still clutching his wounded side, John reached out and gently took the gun from his son's hands. "Dean!" he said sharply. "Pull yourself together, dude. There isn't time for this." He clicked the safety on and pushed the gun into his pocket.

Dean _did_ look at him then. "She was just a kid, Dad," he said, his voice flat and emotionless.

John shook his head. There were things that had to be said, but this wasn't the time or the place. "Get into the car, son. You'll have to drive." John was losing blood and he hurt. His vision was beginning to grey out. He couldn't drive.

Lightning flashed, and the rain fell with more force. John felt one heavy raindrop hit the back of his neck, flowing cold down his spine.

Dean's expression transformed instantly. "Why didn't you tell me you're hurt?" he demanded. Not waiting for a reply he jumped down from the hood and hurried around to the driver's seat.

Relieved, John made his slower way to the passenger door. He pulled the gun from his pocket, rechecking the safety automatically and tossed it into the glove compartment as he climbed in. The car was moving almost before John had the door closed.

"You want to talk about it?" John offered.

Dean threw the Impala into reverse, revving the engine loudly as he hit the accelerator and steered them away from the cliff.

It was all the answer John expected. He leaned back in his seat, letting his body relax and allowing the pain take over, for now. The wound wasn't so bad, really. It could have been a whole lot worse. He closed his eyes, trusting his son to get them back to the motel.

Dean's fist thumped his shoulder and John jerked awake. "What the - ?"

"Dad! Stay awake!"

"'M okay," John muttered.

"You've lost a lot of blood," Dean insisted. "Keep your eyes open. I'm takin' you to the ER."

That brought John back to alertness. "No! No hospital, Dean. Not after what we did tonight." It was much too risky. Show up at a hospital with an obvious knife wound, with Dean covered in blood. Someone would call the cops and he simply didn't have a good cover story for this.

"You need a doctor," Dean protested, ignoring a stop sign as he accelerated into town.

John didn't have the strength to argue. So he didn't argue. "Shut up and follow orders," he said gruffly.

"Yes, sir," Dean responded.

***

John clung to the motel room door, desperate to hide the extent of his weakness from Dean. It was just mild shock from the injury, and would pass soon enough.

"Dean. Lines of salt. Every door and window." The protection probably wasn't necessary now, but better safe than sorry. They sent one demon back to Hell tonight, but there could be others out there.

"Yes, sir," Dean answered, casting a worried look at John before he moved to obey.

With Dean thus occupied, John moved across the room to his bed sat down with relief. He began to remove his clothing. The heavy leather coat, first. John moved slowly, his fingers fumbling. Every motion hurt. It wasn't just the stab-wound, but the battering he'd taken before that. Beneath the coat, his shirt and t-shirt were wet with his blood. He balled the fabric up in his hands, feeling the sticky liquid soak through the layers. It was a shock to realise just how much blood he'd lost. Dean had been right to suggest a trip to the ER.

John let the ruined shirt fall to the floor and leaned back into his pillows to examine the wound. The blood flow seemed to have stopped. He took a deep breath experimentally and relaxed, satisfied the knife had missed his lung.

Dean was already opening a medkit as he came toward John. "Are you gonna make me stitch that?" he asked, and John detected a note of nervousness in his voice.

John probed at the wound with his fingers, wincing a little. "I think a bandage will do it."

"Okay." Dean laid the medkit on the bed. "Sit up, Dad, and quit playin' with it."

John felt a smile twitch his lips, hearing Dean give him orders, but he obeyed, turning to give Dean access to the wound.

Father and son were silent as Dean worked, his brow furrowed in concentration. The boy made a fine field medic, John acknowledged silently. He cleaned his own hands before cleaning the wound carefully, wiping away the worst of the blood surrounding the wound before checking the cut itself more carefully. He worked with quiet concentration, calm and professional.

"This is deep, Dad. I think I should put a couple of stitches in it. Make sure it won't open up next time you... I mean..."

John nodded, accepting Dean's judgement, though he'd been hoping to avoid more pain. He watched Dean sterilise the needle and thread.

"You wanna bite on something?" Dean offered.

"I'll be fine, son. Just be quick."

Dean nodded stiffly and lifted the needle. John, braced for the pain, gave no sign that he felt it, but it seemed like hours before Dean taped a sterile dressing over the wound.

"Done," Dean announced. He put everything away, disposables in a plastic bag to be dumped in the trash, the rest back in the medkit, everything in its place. He did not look at his father.

John understood. He had a bitch of a headache to add to the rest, but Dean had taken care of him. Now _he_ needed to take care of Dean. He reached behind him, arranging the pillows so he could sit almost upright, and lifted his legs onto the bed. "Dean," he said, and waited for Dean to look at him before he went on. "You did good tonight, son."

Immediately, Dean turned away, but not before John glimpsed his expression. "You trusted me to have your back. I fucked it up." He shook his head, smiling humourlessly. "Jesus, I fucked that up."

Privately, John agreed that Dean had made a couple of mistakes, but Dean didn't need a blow-by-blow analysis of the fight just now. So he shook his head. "No, you didn't."

Dean stood facing the bathroom, giving John his back. "She was only six years old," he said softly.

"Is that why you hesitated?" John asked. Even as he spoke, he knew it was a poor response.

"I need to wash my hands," Dean said, walking into the bathroom.

Right. John let him go. The fact was Dean didn't merely hesitate out there: he had frozen, just long enough for John to get a knife in his ribs. But when Dean saw the knife, he acted immediately.

Dean thought he'd killed a child. John, who knew what she really was, hadn't realised that Dean didn't see it. It explained why Dean froze...and raised some uncomfortable questions.

John rose from the bed with an effort. He had to lean on the wall for support as his head whirled. He clenched his fist. He would not pass out. Not yet. He made his way to the bathroom doorway.

Dean was washing his hands. The water swirling in the sink showed no trace of blood, but Dean was still scrubbing at his skin. It wasn't like him at all, but John understood his reaction now.

"Dean."

Dean reached for the towel and half-turned to look at John. "We should have tried an exorcism or something." It was an accusation.

John shook his head. "There wasn't time, but it wouldn't have worked anyway. That wasn't a possessed child, Dean. It was a demon that looked like a child."

"Then why did she bleed? How could I kill her?"

John hesitated. To Dean's first question the truthful answer was John simply did not know. Perhaps the illusion of humanity was just that complete. Perhaps taking physical form meant that particular demon became vulnerable. He didn't know. As for the second question...

"I switched the ammo. I thought you saw me do it."

Dean looked as if he wanted to throw up. "Iron?"

John nodded. "Consecrated iron." He moved back into the room, beckoning Dean to join him. "Son, when you fired, you didn't know what it was, did you?"

Dean simply looked at him. It was answer enough.

"We'll have to work on that."

John sat heavily on the bed, his legs giving way. He gazed up at his firstborn son, trying to decide how much to say. How much would Dean be able to hear, tonight?

Dean did everything right on this hunt, John realised. He killed the demon. He saved John's life. That he hesitated before killing that thing was understandable. John wanted to tell Dean he was proud, because it was the truth. This wasn't the first time Dean had proven himself in the field.

And yet...

If Dean truly believed the demon he killed was a human child, then John had misinterpreted that moment of hesitation. John had assumed the demon's form stayed Dean's hand: that Dean made a mistake, but he was wrong. Dean froze, yes, but then he made a conscious decision to shoot. By firing when he did, Dean may well have saved John's life, but if Dean deliberately chose John over what he thought was an innocent child...that was a problem.

Dean stripped off his shirt and began to un-strap the knives sheathed along his forearms. "Why are you so sure about the kid?"

"Experience," John answered shortly. He explained, "It didn't react like a child."

"Because she was possessed!"

"No, Dean. When a demon possesses a human it has access to its host's thoughts and feelings. The demon's reactions would have been more child-like."

Dean was silent for a moment, fiddling with his knives. Finally, came the confession. "I couldn't tell. I mean, I thought..."

"You were wrong." John sighed, too damn tired to get into this now. "Dean, you should be able to tell the difference by now. You've been hunting long enough."

"I know."

"Get some sleep, son."

***

In his dreams, Dean saw the black-eyed child stab his father, over and over again. In some dreams, Dean fired his gun before she struck, blasting a hole in her small chest. In other dreams, he relived the reality: the stark terror freezing his blood when he saw the flash of a knife in her hand, inches from his father's body, the gun warm in his hand, the recoil when he fired, half the child's pretty face and hair blown away in a spray of blood and bone.

But in every dream, Dean _did_ fire the gun. In every dream, he killed a little girl because she threatened his father's life.

Dean dragged himself out of bed in the morning feeling like he was hung over, though he hadn't been drinking. Sitting on the edge of the motel bed, Dean saw that his father's bed was empty, his bag packed. The hand-drawn map and newspaper clippings they had pinned up on the wall were gone.

Hurriedly Dean pulled out his own bag and shoved his few possessions into it. He dressed quickly, not bothering to shower or shave. He could hear John's voice outside; he must be on the phone. Dean carried both of their bags to the motel room door.

"I don't know yet," John was saying. "A few days, maybe a week. There's something I need to take care of first." John heard, or perhaps sensed, Dean behind him because he turned and gestured toward the Impala.

Dean took in his dad's appearance. John looked tired, but he stood up straight and there was no sign of illness or pain. _You dodged a bullet there, Dad_, Dean thought, satisfied John was recovering. He carried their bags to the car.

Behind him, he heard, "Yeah...thanks again." John ended the call without saying goodbye.

Dean still had the Impala's keys, as he'd been driving the night before. He loaded their bags into the trunk and held the keys out to John.

John shook his head. "You drive, son."

Dean's brow furrowed with concern. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

John opened the car door. "I'm going to be fine, Dean."

_Yeah? Why don't I believe you right now?_ Dean said nothing more on the subject. "Where are we going?" he asked, starting the engine.

"Lincoln."

"Caleb's place?" Dean grinned. That would be cool. Caleb was the weapons expert, and he always had some fun new toy to show off.

John leaned back into the leather seat. "Yeah," he sighed heavily.

Dean glanced his way. "Dad, are you sure you're okay? You don't want to swing by Suzanne's...?"

"Lincoln first," John answered, as Dean knew he would. He was silent for a moment, watching the scenery as Dean drove. "Dean, have you thought about hunting alone? Without me."

"No!" Dean answered vehemently. "You said it yourself, Dad. With Sammy away at school..." He stopped. He'd mentioned Sammy. Bad idea.

Though John was angry when Sam left them to take up his place at Stanford, neither of them really believed Sam would stay gone. Most college kids come home for vacation, don't they? But the Winchesters had never been much for celebrating the holidays. First Thanksgiving and then Christmas came and went with no contact from Sammy (not even a Christmas card). Dean knew then that his brother wasn't coming back.

They didn't talk about Sam now.

"You're right." John ignored Dean's slip of the tongue. "I do need you, but not on every job. We could cover more ground if we do some of the simple jobs separately."

Dean slowed the car for an intersection, and reached across to the glove compartment for a tape. "We've only got one car, Dad."

John smiled. "That's why we're headed to Lincoln. There's a truck Caleb's been outfitting for me. I thought you could take the Chevy."

Dean almost ran off the road. "_Seriously?_" He steadied the car then took his eyes off the road to stare at John. He couldn't mean it. The Impala was John's pride and joy; he'd been driving her since before Dean was born. It would be a snowy day in Hell before John would give her up.

But John was smiling. "Yeah, seriously. It's time you had a car of your own. And you'd better take good care of her."

_Holy crap!_ "I will. You know I will!"

"I know you will. But I want something else from you in return."

"Yeah?" Dean asked, a little warily.

"You remember Bobby Singer?"

Dean frowned, thinking. "The demon guy?"

"I want you to spend some time at his place. A few weeks, a month maybe. No one knows more about demons and their ways, Dean, and it's stuff you need to learn."

Dad was sending him to school. Dean kept driving in silence. This was about last night. He'd screwed up and this was...what? His punishment? Hell, it couldn't be that bad if he was getting the car out of it.

He would have the Impala... Dean considered that for a moment. The thought of a month with only Bobby for company was...not appealing. But Bobby ran a motor workshop or junkyard or something. Dean could give his new car a full overhaul, soup up the engine... Yeah.

"Okay, Dad," he agreed, and accelerated toward the Interstate.


	2. Chapter 2

#### Stanford University, November 2003 (One year, nine months later)

#### Wednesday Afternoon

Sam shut off his cell phone and threw it onto the bed. It landed on the open newspaper with a thud. Sam stared down at the phone and it seemed to look up at him mockingly. He had actually gotten as far as dialling the number this time. At this rate, he might even find the guts to make the call before someone else died.

_If you walk out that door, Sammy, don't come back. You walk out on your family now, you're not family any more._

_Why would I **want** to come back? You're fucking crazy, do you know that? I'm gone and you can go to hell for all I care!_

The newspaper lay open on the bed. Sam's eyes were drawn once more to the grainy photograph above the article he had circled. The photograph showed a four year old boy, grinning cheekily at the camera. He was wearing a Mickey Mouse t-shirt.

_You're a freaking coward, Sam Winchester,_ Sam's conscience taunted him._ Make the call. What's the worst that could happen?_

What's the worst that could happen? Sam might get through. He might have to hear his father's voice again.

Sam re-read the short article, though he already knew it by heart. What was the worst that could happen if he _didn't_ make the call? Sam picked up his cell again and dialled the number. This time, he didn't hang up.

"_The number you are calling is out of service. The number you are calling..._"

"Damn it!" Sam punched the button to end the pointless call. It had been two years. Of course his dad would have changed his number. Now what was Sam going to do? It seemed a shame to waste all the time he'd spent angsting over this call, so he tried a different number, fully expecting to get the same recorded voice.

Instead he heard, "Hello?"

Sam took a deep breath. "Dean? It's me."

"_Sammy?!_" Dean's voice betrayed shock, perhaps even fear. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"

Sam thought he could hear the TV in the background. "I'm okay. But I...I kinda need to talk to Dad. Is he there?"

Dean was silent for a moment before he answered, "No, he's working a job."

Sam was startled. "Without you?" he blurted. Had things changed so much?

"It didn't need us both," Dean said. He sounded irritated.

Oh. That meant Dean had made some mistake and Dad was mad at him. Sam reached for his courage and asked, "Can you give me his number?"

"What's going on, Sammy? Why are you so desperate to talk to Dad? You told us both to go to hell the last time you two _talked_."

Sam sighed. "I know. But...there's something here, Dean. Something I think Dad will want to look into."

"Something like supernatural something?" Dean's voice was worried now. "Are you in danger, Sammy?"

"No, I'm too old."

"What does that mean?"

"There's a travelling carnival in town and I think there's something... It's taking kids, Dean. I've done some checking and this has happened in other places, too."

"Kids?"

"A boy, four years old. Two girls, four and five."

"Have they found bodies?"

Sam couldn't help looking at the newspaper article again. "Not whole ones," he answered flatly.

"Shit, Sammy. How have we not heard about this?"

Sam swallowed. "The newspapers are reporting it like it's a human, a paedophile serial killer. But they don't have all of the details. I...er...I hacked into the police files."

There was a silence. Sam heard gunfire on the TV, then Dean said, "Okay. I'll call Dad. We'll get there as soon as possible. Can you email me the information?"

The relief was overwhelming; Sam didn't realise how worried he'd been until that moment. "I can email some of it. What address are you using now?" He wrote down the email address Dean gave him. "Dean...thanks."

Sam ended the call and set the phone down. His heart felt so much lighter. It was good to hear Dean's voice again and knowing he would soon see his brother made him happier than he expected to feel. Sam looked down at the newspaper article again. _Come soon, Dean. Come soon._

***

John Winchester was on the road when his cell phone rang. He dug the phone out of his pocket and glanced at the display before answering. "Dean, what's up, dude?"

"Dad, I just had a call from Sammy."

"Is he alright?" John asked sharply. He started to look for a place to pull over.

"He's fine, but there's trouble in Palo Alto. Our kind of trouble."

Fear laid icy fingers around John's heart. He steered the truck to the side of the road and parked. "Tell me."

"Three children are dead, all under five, all torn apart. Sammy linked it to a travelling carnival. He said it's happened in other places."

"Did he say what it is?"

"I don't think he knows yet. I told him we'd come, check it out."

John swore under his breath. "Dean, I _can't_. I'm in the middle of a hunt."

"I know. I thought I'd drive out there, see what's going on."

John shook his head, even though he knew Dean couldn't see him. "No," he said firmly.

"Dad!" Dean protested.

"I said, no, son."

"I can handle it," Dean insisted. "Dad, this isn't some random stranger. It's Sammy. He would never have called unless it's serious."

Damn it! If John told Dean to stay home, he'd go out there anyway. Dean was a good hunter, he'd find whatever it was. And then...? But John couldn't abandon his hunt. People were dying here, too. He had to find this poltergeist and banish the damned thing.

"Alright," John agreed reluctantly. "Go to Palo Alto and find out what we're dealing with. I'll be there as soon as I can. But, Dean..._do not_ hunt this thing until I get there. That's an order. Understand me?"

"Yes, sir."

John heard the reluctance in Dean's voice but he trusted Dean to obey. "Call me when you know something."

"Yes, sir," Dean said again and ended the call.

John stared at the cell phone in his hand. Sammy called. Sammy actually called. That meant something. It meant John had hope for his youngest son, for the first time in two years.

Sammy called.

***

#### Thursday Evening

Sam had a bag full of books slung over his shoulder, and a heavy file full of his notes under one arm. Beneath the scruffy jacket, he was wearing a knife strapped to his wrist. He'd worn it since he first visited the carnival. Just a precaution. Part of him hated that his father's training was so deeply ingrained in him. He bought three tubs of salt that morning.

Walking the familiar paths back to his room after spending most of the evening in the library, Sam thought about what he had done the day before. He called his family. He was going to see Dean again. He was going to see his father. Seeing John Winchester was the last thing he wanted, because he knew they would fight again. His dad would find and kill whatever was preying on the carnival and then he would use it against Sam: tell him it's proof that Sam belonged with his family. Sam wouldn't go. He was top of his class and had a shot at a real future. He was _not_ going to allow his father's obsessions to steal that from him.

Sam turned the corner and saw the Impala parked outside his building. The sight stopped Sam in his tracks, his stomach doing flip-flops. Then he saw the girl standing beside the car. She was smiling, listening to something the driver was saying. Sam smiled to himself. Dean. Still flirting with anything in a skirt.

He walked toward the car apprehensively. Was his dad with Dean? Sam could see only one person in the Impala and Dean's profile was instantly recognisable. Dad could be nearby, but he wasn't in the car. Sam felt better. He tried for a casual smile as he got close to the Impala. Then Sam realised the girl Dean was flirting with was someone he knew and his smile became genuine.

"Hi, Rache," Sam called. "Didn't your mom teach you not to talk to strange men?"

She stepped back from the car and grinned at him. "Hi, Sam. I was waiting for you. You don't by any chance have the notes from yesterday's seminar...?"

"Yeah, no problem. D'you want to come up now?"

Rachael glanced at her watch. "I'm in a hurry but...see you tomorrow? Library?"

Sam nodded. "Nine o'clock," he confirmed, making a mental note to copy the notes she wanted.

Rachael looked down at the car, smiling at Dean. "Maybe I'll see you around."

"Count on it," Dean said, turning angry eyes to Sam as Rachael walked away. "Dude, I was working!"

Sam shifted the weight of the file he carried. "You were trying to get laid," he corrected. "I hate to tell you, Dean, but her girlfriend would kick your ass all the way back to Kansas."

Dean's eyes went wide. "No way is she a dyke."

Sam shrugged. "I didn't say she was. But her girlfriend is."

Dean laughed, opening the door of the Impala. "God, I love college life!" He slammed the car door closed. "It's good to see you again, Sammy."

"You too," Sam said, and he meant it. Dean looked good. Great, even. Sam would have hugged him, but his bag and file would get in the way. Instead, he gestured toward his building. "Come on up. Where's Dad?"

"Hunting a poltergeist in Louisiana. He said he'll get here as soon as he can."

"Oh. Okay." Sam felt relieved he wouldn't have to see his dad tonight, but drowning his relief came the old, all-too-familiar fear that this could be the hunt John didn't come back from. Damn...he'd thought he was past all that!

Sam led Dean up to his room, unlocked the door and let Dean enter first. He followed his brother into the room, waiting for the inevitable commentary.

Sam shared the room with another student, Mark, and the room was almost all they had in common. Mark was on a football scholarship and liked sports, girls and bars, not necessarily in that order. Unfortunately, the room clearly demonstrated the very different personalities of its occupants. Mark's half of the room was untidy, with CDs stacked haphazardly beside a large stereo, clothing piled on the desk, chair and TV set, bookshelves full of...well, everything but books, and a large _Fight Club_ poster dominating the wall. By contrast, Sam's half of the room was not so much neat as austere: he couldn't afford things like stereos and televisions. His bookshelf was full of class notes and library books. His one luxury - a laptop computer - sat on the desk. Sam had made some attempt to brighten the place up, but as Dean looked around Sam was conscious that it was very Spartan.

Dean sat down on Sam's bed. "Nice place, Sammy. When do you move in?"

"Oh, that's hilarious."

"Seriously, dude, could this place have less personality? You've got to let me buy you a Zeppelin poster or something." He tugged at the sleeve of his jacket, pulling it down over his hand.

Sam shook his head. "Then it would have _your_ personality," he objected. He stared at Dean's hand. He probably wouldn't have noticed if Dean hadn't tried to cover it up. Something white was peeking out from beneath the leather cuff. Sam wasn't sure at first what he was seeing. Then he knew, and when he looked up to meet Dean's eyes he was grinning. "Dude, what happened to your hand?"

Dean looked annoyed. "It's nothing," he muttered.

"Nothing?"

Dean shot him a you're-gonna-die look and stripped off the coat, revealing the dirty white cast on his left arm. He dumped the coat on the floor beside the bed. "Give me a break, Sammy. It's fine. The cast comes off in a week."

Dean's broken arm (or wrist? Hand? Sam wasn't sure) explained why their dad was working a job without Dean. Dean must have gotten hurt hunting, so Dad made him stay at home until it healed. It made sense: you needed two good arms to hunt.

Sam set down his bag and pulled the chair out from under his desk. He opened the desk drawer and pulled out the file he'd prepared. "How'd you break it?" he asked.

"Doesn't matter," Dean said testily.

_Uh-huh._ "Did you get whatever did it?" Sam pressed. Dean was embarrassed about the injury; Sam understood that. Dad had probably given him hell for it.

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Not exactly," he evaded.

"What does that mean?"

Dean sighed. "You're not gonna let this go, are you? Fuck. Look, no one 'got' what broke my arm because no _thing_ did it. I fell, okay?"

"You fell?"

"Geez, Sammy, yes. I fell. I was hung over and the freaking Alka Seltzer was on the top shelf and I couldn't reach it so I stood on a chair and I fell. Happy now?"

Sam laughed; he couldn't help it. Oh, yeah, Dad must have given Dean six kinds of hell for that.

Dean lifted his legs onto the bed and lay back, his hands behind his head. "So, this thing in the carnival. You know what it is?"

Sam's laughter faded. Down to business. He opened the file. "It's not a spirit. I've been over the whole of the site with an EMF. Nothing. I've tried to narrow it down, but..."

"You're out of practice, Sammy."

Sam nodded, accepting the criticism. "Yeah, I am." Mostly, though, Sam had been hoping he could stay the hell out of it. He'd called in the experts; what more did he need to do? He wasn't a hunter. Not any more. But looking at Dean's face, he knew that Dean expected him to join in the hunt and their dad would expect no less. Shit.

Sam opened the folder and started to explain to Dean everything he had found.


	3. Chapter 3

#### Friday Morning

Pages from the file Sam put together were spread all over the floor and both of the beds. Dean stood in the middle of it all, sorting through the information while he waited for Sam to come back from his date at the library.

Sammy did a thorough job with his investigation; Dean thought even John would be impressed. There was very little in the Palo Alto news articles to indicate a supernatural element was at work, but Sammy kept digging until he'd found it. Dean picked up a newspaper clipping with an article about a missing girl. Like most of the other articles, the newsprint bore multiple smudges from Sam's fingers. He wondered how often Sammy read and re-read all of these articles before he tried to call their father.

Why hadn't Dad picked this up? It was true that there was nothing in the articles themselves that hinted at a supernatural element, but Dean, unlike his little brother, knew that _anything_ happening in Palo Alto would ping John's radar. A year earlier, John found an article about two fatalities in a car wreck near Stanford. There was one quote, just one, that implied the accident might not have been the kids' joy ride it appeared to be. On the strength of that and nothing more, John had insisted they hit the road. John was alert for any hint of the supernatural near Sammy...or any excuse to come here and see his son. From a distance, of course. It was always from a distance. Sam had no idea John Winchester had _ever_ been in Palo Alto.

Dean had no plans to enlighten him.

The door opened and Dean looked up. He relaxed when he saw it was Sam and grinned when he saw the coffee tray and brown bag his brother was carrying.

"About time, Sammy! I'm starving!" He stretched out his good hand for a coffee.

"Dude, put that stuff away. Mark could be back any time."

Dean gathered up the papers and pushed them untidily into the folder; the cast on his hand made him fumble. He couldn't wait to get the damn thing off. He'd never realised how much he used his left hand until he couldn't...and it freaking _itched_. Lesson learned: never stand on chairs while hung over.

Sam handed him the bag and a coffee. Dean sat on Sam's bed and opened the bag. It contained a chunky toasted sandwich, still warm, swimming in melted cheese. Perfect.

Dean took a big bite. "I don't see how," he began with his mouth full, "you connected this carnival to the deaths in Florida and Washington."

Sam seemed to be concentrating very hard on prising the plastic lid off his coffee cup. He didn't answer.

"Come on, dude. This thing in Washington...there was a carnival there, too, but it's not the same one. And in the Florida incident there's nothing. No carnival, no circus..."

"It was a Monster Trucks rally."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Monster Trucks? Seriously? So what's the connection?"

"I don't want to tell you yet."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean demanded.

"I'll explain when you've seen the carnival," Sam said firmly.

_Dude, you always hate it when Dad pulls the need-to-know thing. Why're you doing it to me?_ Dean stared at Sam for a moment, but he was used to this from their father. Sammy must have a reason for this secrecy, irritating as it was. Dean shrugged and took another bite of his sandwich. "Well, let's go."

But Sam shook his head, setting his coffee down on the desk. "I've got a lecture in half an hour. You can go ahead without me if you like, but I'd rather meet you after my class."

Dean couldn't believe what he was hearing. Sammy always thought school was more important than hunting, but this was _his_ hunt! "A lecture? Skip it."

"No!" Sam looked so shocked you’d think Dean had suggested blowing up the lecture hall or something.

Dean put the sandwich down and advanced on Sam. "Hey. You wanna hunt this thing, or - "

Sam stood up straight, forcing Dean to look up at him. His eyes were determined. "I'm _done_ hunting, Dean. I mean it. I'm trying to build a life here. A future. Without y- without Dad and his crazy obsessions."

_Without you._ Dean heard it, loud and clear. Well fuck, if that was how Sammy felt... "What’s the deal here, Sammy? You call for help, but the dangerous stuff is up to me? I never took you for a coward." Dean turned his back on Sam, stalking over to the window.

Behind him, he heard Sam say, "I'm not a coward. I'm just not skipping my class."

Dean didn't turn around. "Whatever, dude," he said dismissively. He wanted to provoke Sam.

Sam was silent for a moment. Dean heard him moving stuff, but stayed where he was, staring out of the window, seeing nothing.

Then he heard the door open again. "One o'clock. I'll meet you outside," Sam said. "Don't forget to lock my door."

The keys hit Dean squarely in the middle of his back. The door slammed, and Dean was alone again.

***

By twelve-thirty, Dean had calmed down, finished his breakfast and cold coffee, met Sammy's roommate (football jock - dull as a rusty blade despite his apparently fine taste in movies) and was sitting in the Impala outside the building where Sam was still in his lecture. It was almost like they were kids again; Dean waiting in the car for Sammy to finish school. But they weren't kids, and Dean was still smarting from the blow Sammy delivered back in his room. So hunting was crazy, was it? _Dad_ was crazy? Until Sam needed help, that was. _Fuck you, Sammy. What's crazy is letting this stuff go on all around you and doin' nothing._

The view was nice, at least. Three girls walked by, two blondes and a redhead, laughing among themselves. Dean turned the music up as Pink Floyd declared _We don't need no education..._ The sudden blast of sound made the redhead turn toward the Impala. She saw Dean watching her and smiled his way. Dean returned her smile, but she didn't stop to chat. Well, he wasn't in the mood anyway.

Dean pulled out his cellphone and called his father. John answered on the second ring.

"Hey, Dad, it's me. How's the poltergeist?"

"Feisty," John grunted. "What about you?"

"There's definitely something here," Dean reported, watching the redhead's ass as she walked away. "Sammy did some good research. There's a travelling carnival that seems to be the centre of it. We're about to check it out."

"Any idea what we're facing?"

"No, sir. I can rule some things out from Sam's groundwork. It's not a spirit. It doesn't leave much of its victims behind so I'm thinkin' it's a creature of some sort. Hungry. I can tell you more after I've done some recon."

"Good. Recon only, Dean. Remember - "

"No hunting until you get here," Dean repeated obediently. "Yes, sir."

"Call me later."

"I will." Dean saw Sam emerging from the building in a crowd of students. He ended the call hurriedly.

The girl Dean remembered from the night before was at Sam's side. She was really cute: African-American, her hair braided into tight cornrows, lovely pouty lips... Dean had been getting somewhere before Sam interrupted them. Sam claimed she was gay...not a chance. Sammy had to be yanking his chain.

Dean caught the end of their conversation as the approached the Impala.

"...don't know, Rache," Sam was saying. "I really don't have time for - "

"What are you, a eunuch?" Rachael sounded exasperated. "C'mon, Sam. You said you think she's sexy. She wants to meet you. And you'd rather _study_?"

"I didn't say that!" Sam protested.

Dean grinned to himself. _You go, girl!_

Rachael nodded. "Fine, then it's settled. Saturday night."

"Sounds like an offer you can't refuse, Sammy," Dean smirked.

Sam glared at him. "It's Sam."

_Oh, sorr-ee._ Dean smiled at Rachael. "You free Saturday, sweetheart?"

She smiled back. "Sorry, I have a date." She looked him up and down appraisingly. "Bet I could find someone for you, though."

Sam opened the car door. "Dean," he said warningly.

Dean sighed. "Yeah, Sam, I know." To Rachael he added, "Saturday, then?"

Sam climbed into the car. "She's not gonna sleep with you, dude."

"Yeah, you told me, college boy. Can we go now?" Dean started the engine.

***

The carnival filled a field just outside town. An adjoining field was being used as a parking lot. Dean found a space for the Impala under a tree. He checked his gun before they left. He half-expected Sam to argue with him packing the gun, but Sam said nothing.

The carnival seemed just like any other. Loud fairground music filled the air, competing with the shouts of the carnies reeling in the marks and the laugher of children. The smells of hot dogs, cotton candy and butter drifted through the air. There were the usual collection of rides for the kids: a helter-skelter, merry-go-rounds, a funhouse and a ghost train, a huge Ferris-wheel...nothing out of the ordinary at all.

"So," Dean said as they walked toward the carnival, "are you gonna spill the big secret?"

"It's not a secret, Dean, but you've got to trust me. There's a reason I haven't told you yet."

"What reason?"

But Sam was already striding ahead.

_Damn it, Sammy!_ Dean hurried to catch up with him. They passed a line of kiosks with the usual fairground games: people throwing hoops or balls to win cheap toys and stuffed animals. Dean spotted a shooting range, though, and thought he might try that out later. Girls were always so impressed by a guy who could shoot straight.

Sam stopped beside the towering helter-skelter. "This is the last place the first victim was seen."

Dean looked around. On his left a tall lattice fence separated him and Sammy from the small crowd of parents and children lining up to pay for their fun. The bored-looking kid taking their money sat in a kiosk painted with orange and green stripes. On the right was the red, white and blue canvas of the big-top tent. Where they stood, Dean saw nothing out of the ordinary.

"What do you see, Dean?" Sam asked. He was watching Dean intently, as if he expected some reaction.

"Nothin'," Dean answered truthfully. "Except that kiosk should be declared illegal. Orange and green?"

Sam wasn't smiling. "Look at the ground."

_What for?_ Dean looked down. The ground beneath their feet was green grass, somewhat trampled, a few patches of bare earth showing through. There was some litter around the edges: candy wrappers, discarded snow cones and cigarette butts. There were a few small flowers or weeds around the edges. He looked more closely, seeking signs of sulphur or scorch marks, ectoplasm...anything. "What am I supposed to be seeing, Sammy?"

Sam stepped closer to the lattice fence and crouched down. "Okay, now feel it," he said. No one else would have picked up the little tremor in his voice, but to Dean he sounded worried or nervous.

"Dude, what are you talking about?" But as soon as Dean knelt beside Sam and touched the ground, he understood. The grass close to the fence wasn't trampled, so it should have felt cool and supple under his hand. But what his fingers encountered was hard and dry. Dead grass.

Dean grasped a handful of grass and pulled. It came away easily. The blades of grass changed before his eyes from green to grey-brown. Dean closed his fist and the grass crumbled.

He stared at Sam, momentarily speechless.

"You see it now, don't you?"

Dean looked from Sam to the ground at their feet. He saw nothing green any longer. It was as if all the colour, all the life, drained from the scene before his eyes. Everything: the grass, the flowers, was dead.

"I see it," Dean said. His voice came out unevenly and he cleared his throat. "Dead ground." He dropped the grass he was holding, rubbing his hands on his pants and straightened up.

Sam stood, too. "Once you've seen it, the illusion stays broken," Sam explained. "That's why I couldn't tell you earlier. You had to see it for yourself, man."

"Yeah...I get that." What the hell could do this? Dean swallowed against the pit of fear beginning to build inside him. "Sammy...how did _you_ manage to see this?"

"When the first kid went missing I did some digging." Sam smiled a little. "Old habits, I guess." He began to walk, still talking. "I didn't really expect to find anything, but...well, I found the stories about what happened in Washington. One detail that struck me was the state of the field when the carnival left. Some local environmentalists made a real fuss about it. I thought, maybe there would be some signs here. Once I touched it, like you did..."

Dean could feel the dead grass now, crunching beneath his boots.

"Dean, I've read about some things that can befoul the earth, but...what could hide it like this?"

Dean shrugged, hoping the casual gesture would hide how freaked out he was feeling. "Dude, I have no idea. It's got to be a spell of some kind, a glamour. It's damned powerful to affect all of these people at once." He looked around them, trying to see the extent of the effect. Then he looked up. "Sammy, let's ride the Ferris wheel."

"What? Why?"

"'Cause the view from up there will be somethin' to see."

***

Dean bought them a pair of hot dogs with all the trimmings. Sam paid for them to get on the Ferris wheel. The wheel was about eighty feet high, covered with coloured lights that would probably be spectacular by night. By day it looked dull, the white paint chipped and the red plastic seats faded by sunlight.

They finished their dogs while waiting in line. Finally, they clambered into one of the faded seats and allowed the attendant to lower the safety rail, locking them in. Dean hated that.

"So..." he grinned at Sam, "that Rachael chick..."

The Ferris wheel began to move, slowly, then stopped to let the next load of passengers aboard.

Sam sighed. "Not again. Dean, if you want to hook up, I'll point you to the nearest party. I'm sure you'll find more than your share of sorority girls in search of a bit of rough."

"I can hook up without your help. But _you_...were you turning down a date?"

"Oh. That."

Dean knew he'd needled Sammy. "Spill it, dude," he ordered with satisfaction.

Sam shook his head. "It's nothing. Rache has been trying to fix me up since - " He broke off as the wheel moved again, raising them higher. "Never mind."

"So why are you turning her down?" Dean pressed. They weren't yet high enough to see everything.

Sam looked at him. "Because Dad's coming. That's not gonna put me in a party mood."

Dean remembered Sam's _without you_ from earlier. "Do you hate" (me) "Dad that much?" he asked, damned sure he didn't want to hear the answer.

"No! I don't hate him. I hate that he refuses to respect my life. _My_ choices."

The Ferris wheel moved again and they were at the top. Dean glanced down at the field below them. He thumped Sam's arm. "Dude, check it out."

Sam looked down. So did Dean.

From the top of the Ferris wheel, they could see the entire carnival, and much more. The whole of the field below them was dead ground. The grass, the trees that edged the field, everything was dead.

"Holy crap," Sam breathed. "Dean...what could have done this?"

Dean didn't answer. He knew what they were facing now. He had seen it before.


	4. Chapter 4

#### Friday Evening

The poltergeist was gone. The girl it had haunted was in hospital, but now she was free of the malevolent spirit she should make a full recovery. Her house was a mess, her father thought John Winchester was a dangerous nutjob (well, he was half right), but that didn't matter. The job was done; the family would be safe now.

John stashed his guns in the back of his truck and rubbed his left wrist slowly. The wrist was beginning to swell but it wasn't broken, just a little sprain. He would ice it back at the motel and it would be fine. He thought ironically that his injury matched Dean's broken wrist, and that made him think of where his son was now. Where his _sons_ were. Together.

He climbed into the truck and checked his phone. The display showed five missed calls. _Five?_ John scrolled through the calls quickly then punched his voicemail code.

_"Dad? I've just been to the carnival and I think I might know what we're dealing with. Call me when you get this."_

_"Dad, it's me again. I guess you're busy with your hunt but don't forget to call, okay?"_

_"Dad, where are you? I've gotta talk to you, man. Call me as soon as you get this."_

John didn't listen to the rest. The worry in Dean's voice was enough. He called his son.

"Dad? Jesus, where have you been?" Dean's voice was a mixture of worry and relief. John heard a television in the background.

He answered calmly, "I've been banishing a poltergeist. What's going on, Dean? Did you find something?"

"Give me a second," Dean said. John heard a door close, and the sound of the television faded. Dean went on, his voice low. "Dad, the field where the carnival is set up, all the grass is dead. Whatever is there it's so evil it's turned the whole field into unholy ground. And there's more..."

John didn't interrupt as Dean gave his report. Dean explained everything he had found, his voice matter-of-fact. But by the time he reached the end, John could hear the strain in his son's voice. Dean was scared, and John understood why.

"Dad...two years ago...that kid I killed..."

"The demon," John corrected.

"Yeah, that. I remember...the grass died where she walked. But this can't be her, can it?"

John hesitated. He didn't want to give Dean more reasons to be scared, not while they were so far apart.

"Dad?"

"I don't know, son. It's possible."

"But we killed it! _I_ killed it."

"You can't kill something that can't die. You killed its body and sent it back to hell, Dean. Doesn't mean it can't crawl out again."

"Fuck."

"That's enough," John snapped. "Dean, it's _possible_ that this is the same demon, but there are other things it could be. The murders suggest a ritual of some kind...virgin sacrifice, maybe. Look into that."

"Yes, sir." Dean's voice was calmer now.

"Whatever it is, you're dealing with something very powerful. Take every precaution, Dean. Make sure Sammy does, too. Do you have holy water?"

"Yes, sir. And salt. We'll be fine."

"Don't try to hunt it until I get there," John reminded him.

"We won't," Dean promised.

"Good. I'm done here, so I'll be with you as soon as I can."

"Thanks, Dad. Bye."

John started the engine wearily. He wanted to leave at once, but common sense overruled the impulse. He was tired from his hunt, and he would need to be awake and reasonably refreshed when he reached Palo Alto. No, he decided. Some ice on the wrist and a few hours sleep. If he hit the road before dawn, he could make better time.

***

#### Earlier

"Is this everything?" Dean asked, pushing the last of Sam's printouts into the file.

Sam nodded. "That's it." He shoved his few weapons into a bag, added shaving gear and his toothbrush and pulled on his coat.

"Let's go," Dean said curtly, already turning toward the door.

Sam followed, pausing only to lock his room as they left. Dean was acting weird. He'd been acting weird ever since they left the carnival: stiff and distant, barking orders like he was their dad. Sam hadn't called him on it because he thought it was because Dean was scared. It took a lot to scare Dean.

Dean opened the Impala's passenger door for Sam and walked around.

"Dean...why didn't Dad take the car?" Sam asked. The question had been on his mind for a while.

Dean's answering smile was softer than anything Sam remembered seeing on his brother's face. He ran a hand lovingly over the Impala's hood. "She's mine now," he said proudly. "Dad's driving a truck."

Sam couldn't hide his surprise. "When I left, he didn't even like you driving her." He climbed into the car.

"Things change." Dean slammed the car door and started the engine. Music blasted out:

_Oh, keep talking  
You're a hunter I'm a wolf  
Yeah! Keep talking  
I'm the preacher you're a fool  
Contamination and radiation  
Let it crawl while the city sleeps1_

Sam smiled to himself. He didn't recognise the song, but that was so Dean. The volume of the music made conversation pointless, so Sam leaned back in the familiar car, and let Dean drive.

At his motel room, Dean locked the door and poured salt over the threshold. Then he went to the window, pouring salt there, too.

Sam watched him do it. He turned the television on, searching for a news channel. "What's got you so worried, Dean?"

Dean said nothing until he'd finished creating his line of salt at the window. Then he straightened up, looking at Sam. "Sammy, if what we saw at that carnival doesn't worry you, you ain't payin' attention."

"I'm paying attention. But we still don't know what this is..."

Dean lifted his bag onto the nearest bed. "I might." He pulled out a second tub of salt and disappeared into the bathroom.

Sam followed.

"The dead ground. I've seen that before. Not exactly the same, but - " Dean broke off as his phone rang. He looked at the phone. "About time!" He answered the call. "Dad? Jesus, where have you been?" He held out the salt tub to Sam.

Sam took the hint - and the salt - and finished the salt line across the bathroom window while Dean listened to their father's reply.

"Give me a second," Dean said, walking away. A moment later, he was closing the door behind him, emphatically shutting Sam out of the conversation.

That gesture said it all, didn't it?

_If you walk out that door, Sammy, don't come back. You walk out on your family now, you're not family any more._

John's words echoed in Sam's mind. Watching the closed motel room door, Sam felt the sting of them again. Even if this was what he'd wanted, it still hurt.

***

"Take every precaution, Dean.," John instructed. "Make sure Sammy does, too. Do you have holy water?"

Dean could have pointed out that he'd already taken such precautions, but in a weird way it was a relief to know John was worried, too. "Yes, sir," he confirmed. "And salt. We'll be fine."

"Don't try to hunt it until I get there." John ordered.

"We won't," Dean promised, and meant it. Whatever this was, it was way out of his league. He would hunt it if he had to, but he really wanted his dad's backup on this one.

"Good. I'm done here, so I'll be with you as soon as I can."

"Thanks, Dad. Bye." Dean pocketed his phone.

It sounded like a ritual, John had said. Ritual. The word lingered in Dean's mind, teasing him, as if there was something he should remember. Ritual...

He thought back to the child-demon he'd killed two years earlier. They'd never known for certain who raised it. Its first victim, John had said, was the most likely suspect. Demons weren't known for gratitude and summoning one the way _that_ demon was summoned was suicidal. But that was supposition. What if the same magician was behind this? The same demon...?

The door opened behind him and Sam poked his head through. "Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy, I'm coming."

"Is Dad okay?"

"He's fine. Said he's on his way." Dean laid his phone beside the bed in case John called back. "Sam, Dad thinks these killings could be some sort of ritual sacrifice. I'm gonna go over the police files. Can you come up with a map of the field and mark everything we know about where these kids visited, where they disappeared?"

Sam frowned. "Uh...sure...but..." he said uncertainly.

"But what?"

"Well...if it's ritual, the significant thing will be where they died. Dean, we've got no way to know that."

"So start with what we _do_ know, dude," Dean insisted. He picked up Sam's file and carried it to his bed.

That morning, Dean had skimmed through everything in the file, but there hadn't been time to read it all closely. Now he did, ignoring the press clippings and Sam's notes and reading the police case notes first.

It was uncomfortable reading. These were children, each of them visiting the carnival with parents. None of the parents had noticed anything strange; or if they had, they weren't telling the police. Each told the same story: they had taken their eyes off the child for just a moment - to pay for a ride or to talk to someone - and when they looked back, the child was gone. No signs of a struggle. No screams. Nothing. That was odd in itself, Dean thought.

He turned to the autopsy reports, which included photographs mercifully printed in black-and-white. The first body was found not far from the carnival field; the second and third had been further away. The photographs showed the tiny body scattered in bloody pieces over grass and dirt; the largest...piece...was the poor child's head. Dean had seen some ugly things in his life; one or two of them when he was this kid's age. But the photographs turned his stomach. It wasn't the work of a creature. He could see the shape of the cuts, too clean to be anything but a knife. A _person_ did this. How could anyone do this to a child?

The ME's report included a note that all the mutilation happened after the child died; that was something, at least. And again that word _ritual_ was bugging him. Dean started noting down what seemed to him to be the significant details. The murder weapon was a double-edged knife, 15-20 centimetres long. Cause of death impossible to determine for certain, but the ME believed two of the three had their throats cut, left-to-right, deep cuts that would have killed almost instantly. On the third, he refused to commit himself. Parts of each body were missing: internal organs, the left hand of one child, and more, details that Dean noted down dutifully and tried to avoid thinking about.

Ritual. Virgin sacrifice, maybe. "Damn it, _what_ can't I remember?" Dean burst out, throwing down the file.

Sam looked up. "What...?" he began. Then he whirled, reaching for the TV remote and turning the sound up.

"_...no reason to believe Sarah Langley's disappearance is linked to the recent murders of three young children in Palo Alto..._"

Dean saw a still photograph of a child replace the news anchorwoman's face on the screen. A little girl in pigtails, five or six years old, her gap-toothed smile wide and happy as she laughed at the camera, clutching a teddy bear.

"_...But police tonight appealed for anyone who may have seen Sarah in the past few days to come forward urgently..._"

Dean looked at Sam, whose eyes were fixed on the screen. The picture changed to show a woman, obviously upset, speaking haltingly into a reporter's microphone. The girl's mom, Dean thought.

"I know her," Sam whispered.

"You do?" Dean, his thoughts still full of those horrible photographs, swallowed hard.

Sam turned the TV off. "Not the girl. Her mother...she's a professor of art history here. Dean...do you think she's still alive?"

If this was hitting the news now, the kid must have been missing at least four or five hours. Dean shook his head. "No, Sammy, I don't. I'm sorry, man."

"But she could be, right? I mean, we don't know..."

Dean didn't have the heart to insist on the truth. He looked down at the notebook he'd been writing in. "Dude, we don't know _anything_ for sure. I wish Dad were here. He'd make sense of this in no time."

"Make sense of what?"

"I don't know!" Dean threw it down, frustrated. "Damn it, Sammy, there's something here. I can feel it. Something I oughta recognise or remember..."

"Whoa, Dean, slow down. Tell me what you've got."

Talking it over with Sammy did help get Dean's thoughts in order, but did nothing to dispel that nagging feeling that the vital clue was somewhere just out of his reach.

They watched a repeat of the news and got the full story about the missing girl. She'd gone missing from a supervised play area in the local mall and if she'd ever been to the carnival, the reporters didn't know about it. Sam extended his hand-drawn map to include the information. They went over the map together, checking each detail. Sammy did a good job: his map of the carnival matched Dean's memory. But the missing piece of the puzzle did not appear to be in the map.

_Ritual. Fuck it. I need to clear my head._ "Sam," Dean suggested abruptly, "let's go out and eat."

***

"Sam! Sam!"

Sam turned toward the woman's voice and recognised his friend, Cat, and other friends on the far side of the bar-room. He smiled and waved, accepted the cold beer Dean gave him and headed their way, assuming Dean would follow.

"Is the world ending?" Cat asked him, and when Sam frowned, not understanding the question, she added, "I mean you, doofus. Out drinking beer when the library's still open."

Sam smiled tolerantly. It was true he _did_ spend a lot of time studying. He needed to do exceptionally well to hang on to his scholarship. He reached for a chair as the others scooched over to make room at the table. "Cat, this is my brother, Dean. He talked me into taking a night off."

Cat grinned at Dean. "Good to meetcha. And well done. The library's gonna start charging Sam rent if he's not careful."

"Hey there...Cat," Dean drawled.

Sam winced, waiting for the inevitable bad joke.

But Cat laughed. "My parents, who should never be allowed to name _anything_, called me Tabitha. Tabitha became Tabby...so now I'm Cat. And, no, I don't purr if you stroke me. Or have claws."

"Just a hell of a left hook," Sam grinned, pulling up a chair for Dean. "Cat is Rachael's girl. Is she here?"

Cat shook her head. "Later."

Dean looked at Sam, then back to Cat. "This is the gal you think is so tough?"

Cat glared at Sam. "Gee, thanks, Winchester. Another pissing contest is all I need." She added, to Dean, "I can handle myself. I teach a women's self-defence class on campus. Sam volunteered to help out in the advanced class last year."

"Sammy volunteered to get beat up by a bunch of girls?" Dean repeated gleefully.

Sam drank his beer. Dean was never going to let that one go. "Yeah, Dean, that's right," he shrugged before continuing the introductions: Alex and Clive, both pre-law students like Sam; Marian, majoring in literature, Dana and her boyfriend, Lee. Sam's friends. All of them were part of his life here at Stanford. All of them greeted Dean with frank curiosity, and Sam felt really weird, bringing Dean into this crowd. Dean belonged to his old life.

Sam hated himself for even thinking that about his brother, even as he acknowledged the truth in it. He resolved to try to make Dean feel welcome in the conversation, but Dean was eyeing the pool table and when he left to refill his glass Dean didn't return.

Oddly, Sam wasn't the only one who seemed to relax when Dean was gone. The atmosphere changed without him as if Sam's friends, too, couldn't speak freely in front of Dean.

"Did you hear the news?" Alex asked Sam, his voice as quiet as it could be in the noisy bar.

"About Professor Langley?" Sam's mood darkened. "Yeah, I saw it on TV."

"Do you think it's...the same?" Dana asked.

Sam shrugged, unable to reveal everything - or _any_thing - he knew. "It's a hell of a coincidence if it's not," he admitted. "But I hope - "

Cat patted his hand. "We all _hope_. I'm thinking it's time to make people take precautions around here. I mean, expand our escort service on campus, make sure women use it..."

Sam shook his head. "It won't - " He corrected himself quickly, "_He_ won't attack adults, Cat. Serial killers nearly always stick to a specific type of victim. This one goes for children."

"Listen to Agent Sam Starling, ladies and gentlemen!" Clive said sarcastically. "You know a lot of serial killers, do you?"

Sam shrugged. "I used to read a lot about it. I thought about a career with the FBI at one time." The lie came all-too-easily to his lips. He finished his beer and looked around for Dean.

***

Her hands were clumsily unbuckling his belt even as Dean closed the stall door behind them. He slid the lock home and turned around, pulling up her skirt. She wasn't wearing underwear. He grinned. Good to meet a girl who knew what she wanted. He dug into his pocket for a condom and kissed her hard, tasting the alcohol on her breath.

Dean hadn't even asked her name. Nor she, his.

It didn't matter. This was what he needed: the rush of sex, heat and flesh to drown out the lingering images of bloody pieces of children, to make him forget it all for a few ecstatic moments.

It didn't last for long. It was minutes at most before she was biting into the leather of his coat to muffle her climax, her fingers gripping his shoulders as her body shook in his arms. He shoved her against the door as he finished, rough and merciless, not troubling to be quiet.

Moments later, she unlocked the stall door and was gone. They had barely even spoken.

Dean cleaned himself up, zipped his pants, wiped lipstick off his mouth and walked out to where Sammy was still nursing his beer. "Ready to go, Sam?"

Sam looked a little surprised, but he nodded. "I guess."

***

#### Saturday, 3.03am

Dean woke grabbing for the knife beneath his pillow. He scrambled out of the bed, the knife in his hand. He was crouched on the floor, ready to fight, before he fully realised he was awake.

The room was quiet and still. The only sound was the gentle sigh of Sam's breathing. Dean listened to Sam breathe, letting the sound calm him as the adrenaline rush faded. God, he missed having Sammy around!

What woke him? Dean transferred the knife to his left hand and walked around the room, checking the salt lines carefully. They were all intact. He sat down on his bed, slipping the knife back under his pillow. Maybe it was just a nightmare, or a passing car or...something. He was on edge.

Dean checked his watch. Past three in the morning. The hour of the wolf. He'd heard that someplace...oh, yeah. Bobby. The hour between three and four in the morning, when a man's defences are at their weakest. Bobby said those murders in Amityville happened at 3.15, which proved to him that there was a demonic influence at work. Demonic ritual...

Dad said these murders sounded like ritual... Ritual meant signs, omens, patterns...

"Oh, Jesus," Dean whispered into the dark. It couldn't be that simple...could it?

Dean clicked the light on and ran over to the table. Sammy mumbled in his sleep and covered his head with the pillow, but he didn't wake. Dean sorted through the papers rapidly until he found Sam's map. He picked up a pencil and drew a line linking the site of the first disappearance to the second. Then another, the third to the fourth.

"Son of a bitch." The lines formed an almost perfect Latin cross. Dean looked for the places where the bodies were found. The map wasn't exactly to scale, but from the three points they already knew Dean created a second cross on the map. The fourth body would be dumped somewhere along that line.

Dean looked at Sam's sleeping form. He couldn't ask Sam to do this. Hell, he shouldn't be considering it himself, he knew what John would say. _Don't_. _Wait for me._

"Sorry, Dad. Not this time," Dean said aloud. He dressed quickly, scrawled a quick note to let Sam know why he'd left, and hurried out to the Impala.

***

The place was in the grounds of a large house. Dean couldn't tell if anyone was home but a place this size was bound to have some tough security. He took his handgun and checked that the clip was full before pushing it into his pants, then picked up a shotgun as well. He clicked on his flashlight and walked around the fence until he found a spot he could climb.

At the top of the fence he waited, ready to run like hell if there was a dog, or an alarm. He heard nothing, so dropped lightly down to the grass below. He moved through the grounds cautiously, using the flashlight as little as possible.

The smell of blood led him to it. When he first caught the scent it was mixed with something else vaguely familiar...incense? Dean raised his shotgun.

And then he saw it. A tiny, severed hand with blood bright around the palm.

It took everything he had to stand there, quite still, to look and not run and to keep his supper where it was supposed to be. Dean knew he couldn't stay for long. If he were caught here... He searched the area by flashlight. It was enough to confirm what he already knew: there were more body parts here.

Dean whirled at a sound behind him, aiming the shotgun, his finger squeezing down. But there was nothing there. He'd probably heard a rat. Or not. Fuck, the killer might still be here. He searched the darkness but saw no one. He stayed where he was, listening. Slowly, he relaxed.

Back in the Impala, Dean pushed a tape into the stereo and drove toward town. He drove slowly, not wanting to reach the motel too soon. He turned the volume up. Music helped him to think.

_It's criminal  
There ought to be a law  
Criminal  
There ought to be a whole lot more  
You get nothing for nothing  
Tell me who can you trust  
We got what you want  
And you got the lust...2_

Four children were dead. That was fucking criminal.

_Okay, Dean. Concentrate. What do you know?_

Four children. Body parts stolen from each. The mutilation might be an attempt to cover up what the killer was really doing. The significant locations formed the shape of a Latin cross. Why a cross? Wasn't that a holy symbol?

If it weren't for the dead ground at the carnival and the spell of illusion covering it, Dean would be convinced by now they were dealing with some human crazy. Sick, psychotic, but not supernatural. Not his problem. That would explain the cross, too. If it were a run-of-the-mill human psycho, it would be something like "God" told him to do it.

Dad said this had the feel of ritual. Sacrifice.

That body hadn't been in the garden for long. The blood had been fresh. Laid out in "the hour of the wolf"...demonic influence showing in murders...missing body parts... Bobby had listed other murders, too, famous ones, which he believed were demonic work. Just like the most infamous of all...

_Oh, holy crap! How could I be so stupid?_

Dean pulled over to the side of the road. He turned off the tape and pulled out his phone. He found his hands were shaking, his heart pounding with fear. Because it all made sense now.

But if he was right, how the hell was Dean going to stop it? Wait for Dad? He couldn't wait.

It felt wrong, disloyal, even to think it, but Dean knew this was beyond John Winchester. There was only one person who might know what to do.

He dialled a number and waited impatiently while the phone rang.

On the sixth ring, a voice heavy with sleep growled, "This had better be good."

"Bobby, it's Dean Winchester. I need your help."

 

#### Lyrics:

[1] _Preacher Man_, Fields of the Nephilim

[2] _If You Want Blood_, AC/DC


	5. Chapter 5

#### Saturday Morning

Sam woke alone in Dean's motel room. He lived through four minutes of pure panic before he found Dean's note,

> _Sammy --_
> 
> _Had a midnight inspiration so I've gone to check it out. Didn't want to wake you in case I'm right. **Please** wait for me_
> 
> _\-- Dean_

Sam breathed a sigh of relief. At least Dean was okay. "Midnight inspiration", though? What the hell was that? Sam saw the carnival map, then, with the lines Dean had drawn. His stomach lurched. _Oh, god, Dean, you didn't..._

He dived across the room for his phone and called his brother.

"Hey, Sammy."

_God, it's good to hear your voice!_ "Did you find her?" Sam demanded.

Dean didn't answer at once. Sam could hear the Impala's engine and Dean's music in the background over a lot of interference on the line. Finally, Dean said, "I did. Sammy, I'm sorry."

"Tell me."

"Dude, you don't wanna know the details, trust me." Dean hesitated, then added, "I'm on my way back, Sammy. I've got a lot to tell you, but not over the phone. Just stay put."

Sam took a deep breath. He'd caught only part of what Dean was saying over the static, but it was enough to get the gist. "Okay."

"You want coffee? I'll stop on the way."

"Yeah. Grab me a bagel, too?"

"Uh...okay. See you soon."

Sam turned on the television while he waited for Dean. The local news channel was still full of the abduction of Sarah Langley. The child's mother, Professor Langley, spoke to the cameras, her voice strong at first, begging for her daughter's safe return. The camera kept running as she dissolved into tears and was led away by another woman. Sam wondered where her husband was.

The news said nothing about the police finding Sarah's body.

The camera had no respect for a family's grief. All these reporters cared about was the story, displaying the Professor's pain across headlines and television screens. It made Sam think of his own family. His father had been spared this, at least, when his mom died.

The news report moved on to something else. Sam left the television on, but quit listening. He paced the room, anxious for Dean's return.

***

"You've got to be kidding me," Sam said flatly.

Dean slammed the gun he was cleaning down on the table between them, anger sparking in his eyes. Sam flinched at the gesture: you could make a gun go off like that, but he'd seen Dean remove the clip. The gun was safe. Dean wasn't.

"Do you think I'd joke about something like this?" Dean demanded.

Sam held up both hands in a "peace" gesture. "No. No, of course not. But, Dean, you're talking about the most famous serial killer in history." Sam shook his head. He wanted to believe Dean. It just sounded so...preposterous. "I mean, dude, _Jack the Ripper_? Whoever he really was, he's been dead a century or more. There was nothing supernatural about him."

Dean picked up the gun and slid the clip, now loaded with what looked like iron bullets, home. "First," he snapped, "I didn't say this killer _is_ Jack the Ripper. I said the murders are the same thing."

"Jack the Ripper killed six prostitutes. Adult women, Dean. Not children."

"And _second_," Dean went on, ignoring Sam's interruption, "you're wrong about Jack not being supernatural. Why do you think he was never caught?"

"Because the cops back then didn't have the benefit of modern forensics or profiling."

Dean stood, tucking the gun through his belt. With his back to Sam, he said, "I know what I'm talking about, Sammy." He sat down on the end of the motel bed. "A few months after you left us, Dad sent me to spend some time with another hunter. Bobby Singer. He's a demonology expert."

"You mean like an apprenticeship?"

"Kinda. Dad said there was stuff he could teach me. Bobby has a file thicker than an encyclopaedia on demon-influenced murders. It included Aleister Crowley's theory about Jack."

Aleister Crowley was a black magician, famously dubbed "the wickedest man alive" in his day. Although wicked, in this case, was a relative term: truly evil magicians don't court publicity the way Crowley did. No, Crowley had been powerful, but more amoral than evil. In Victorian England, it was the same thing.

So Sam nodded. "Okay, that's a name I recognise," he agreed.

"Crowley uncovered a ritual dating back to the middle ages. It was black magic, stuff so dark Crowley wouldn't touch it. He believed that Jack the Ripper was a black magician attempting to complete that ritual. It involved killing five people, and the magician gained new powers with each murder."

Sam found himself sitting up straighter. "And...?"

"And it gets worse." Dean stood, walking over to the window. "He's not just killing, Sam. He's stealing souls. In the fifth ritual, if he gets it right, he trades the souls of his victims to some demon in exchange for the ultimate power."

Sam swallowed. "What's the ultimate power?"

"I haven't a clue. No one knows. But I'm betting it ain't good."

"Okay. But you still haven't said anything that proves a connection between this ritual and these dead children."

"It's on the map, Sammy." Dean moved to the table and turned the map around. "Just look at it."

"I saw this earlier," Sam agreed, not pointing out that he'd drawn the map in the first place. "But why would someone use a Christian cross in a black magic ritual?"

Dean's look was almost contemptuous. "I know you're out of practice with this stuff, Sammy, but that's just lame. Look again."

Sam looked at the map, his eyes tracing the lines Dean had drawn. For a moment, all he saw was the same thing he'd seen that morning. Then he turned the map around, orienting it to the north, like a real map. He sank back into his chair. "I can't believe I didn't see that."

"Catching on, college boy?" Dean drew a bowie knife out of his bag.

"Alright, don't rub it in. The cross is reversed, signifying a black mass. A ritual to summon the devil."

Dean nodded. "An upper-level demon would be powerful enough to desecrate the field and create the illusion to hide it. Sammy, from what you put together - the murders in Florida and Washington, a magician has been trying to complete this pact for a while. Both times, something has stopped him. I don't know, maybe some other hunter. But now, he's two slice-and-dices away from winning. We can't let that happen."

Dean flipped the knife over in his hand and offered it, hilt-first, to Sam.

Sam took the knife. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

"There's one more thing I've got to know before we can kill this son of a bitch. But first..." Dean stretched his arm out across the table: the arm covered with the grubby cast. "Help me get this thing off."

Sam stared at him. "Are you high? Dean, if you take that cast off before the bones are healed, you could end up with damage that won't heal. Ever. You want to risk that?"

Dean gave him an impatient look. "It's supposed to come off in a few days anyhow. It'll be fine. Dude, I can't hunt with this thing on my hand. It throws off my aim."

Sam shook his head stubbornly.

Dean held his hand out for the knife. "Fine. I'll do it myself."

***

The piercing ring of his cell phone woke John. He grabbed the phone from the nightstand and answered it without opening his eyes. "John Winchester."

"John," a male voice growled, "what shit have you gotten that boy into this time?"

John felt tired, a little groggy: the lingering effects of strong painkillers and not enough sleep. The voice was familiar, but he didn't place it immediately. "Who is this?" he asked, sitting up in the bed. Sunlight streamed in through a gap in the curtains.

"He called me at five thirty this morning. I gave him the information he wanted, John, but I want _you_ to tell me you know what you're doing."

The last of his tiredness sluiced away. "_Dean_ called you?" He recognised the voice now: Bobby Singer. What would have made Dean call Bobby, and not his own father?

"Christ, John, yes. I'm telling you, that boy doesn't understand what he's stepping in. If you want to risk your immortal soul that's your affair, but you've no right to order that boy - "

"Bobby!" John almost shouted. "Shut up and listen to me. Whatever Dean is doing, it's not on my orders. He's not with me, he's in Palo Alto with his brother. Now back up and tell me what trouble you think my Dean is in."

For a moment, there was silence. Then Bobby said slowly, "Where are you, John?"

"Louisiana."

"And you let Dean go into this alone?"

"I didn't _let_ him do anything," John spat irritably. "It's his brother." It was the truth - John couldn't have stopped Dean. But Dean promised to wait, damn him! "Bobby, tell me what's going on."

"Dean called me two hours ago asking questions about a medieval pact with the Devil."

John nodded. That made sense. "He's been looking into a string of murders," John volunteered.

"He told me. John, he thinks someone is trying to recreate the old pact. He wanted to know how to stop it. I told him what I could, but he hung up before I could warn him."

"Warn him about what?" John remembered, You said something about putting the soul in danger. Explain, Bobby."

John was gripping the cell phone almost hard enough to crack the casing. When he realised what he was doing he tried to unclench his hand. But Bobby kept talking, and every word tightened the knot in John's stomach.

He gave Dean strict orders not to hunt this thing. Dean was capable, but he was hurt, damn it, and for a job like this even that small injury could make the difference between success and dead...or worse. Would Dean obey orders? When John was with him, Dean always followed orders. If Dean were alone, John thought he could be confident Dean would wait. But he wasn't alone. He was with Sammy, and Sammy had always followed his own instincts ahead of his father's orders. Dean was as loyal to Sammy as he was to John. Perhaps more. With the boys together - without John - he couldn't predict what Dean would do.

Did Dean call Bobby in order to have all the information when John arrived? Or was he hunting now, without waiting?

These thoughts ran through John's head while Bobby told him everything.

_Everything_ was enough for John to consider very seriously abandoning his rig and catching the next plane to California. But he dismissed that urge immediately; the only thing more dangerous than failing to reach his boys would be to reach them unprepared. He needed his truck and his arsenal.

John tried to call Dean. The call went straight to voicemail. John cursed and hung up without leaving a message.

Ten minutes later he was on the road, driving west as fast as possible. But he knew in his heart he would be too late to stop Dean making a mistake he might regret for eternity.

***

"Here it is. Turn right." Sam reached out to turn down the music as Dean steered the Impala turned into the street he indicated. The neighbourhood was upmarket without being ostentatious: perfectly manicured lawns surrounded clean driveways and faux-colonial houses. It was a good neighbourhood; the kind of place Sam thought he'd like to live someday. A dog barked as Dean parked the car and Sam saw a couple of girls around eighth grade age running with a golden retriever on a leash. Yeah, this was a good place to live.

Dean started to get out of the car. Sam didn't move.

Dean sat down again. "You comin'?"

Sam wanted to turn the car around and head straight back to the carnival, or the campus. Anywhere but here. "I can't believe you talked me into this," he muttered, more to himself than to Dean. Sam had done things like this before, on his father's orders. He hated it then, and he hated it now, even though he understood why Dean thought it was necessary. It was bad enough when it was lying to strangers, but this was someone he knew and respected. And it was wrong. Just wrong.

Sam didn't say any of this to Dean.

"You want to stay here?" Dean asked. He rummaged through a wooden box. Dean wore a white support bandage on his left wrist in place of the cast. He'd insisted he didn't need it, but Sam refused to help him with the cast until Dean agreed to wear the bandage. He knew Dean's wrist would need the support, especially if it wasn't fully healed.

Dean extracted a fake FBI badge bearing his photograph.

Sam rolled his eyes. At a glance the badge was a good forgery (Dad always was good at this) but Dean would never get away with impersonating an FBI agent. Not dressed as he was, unshaven and scruffy. Sam was tempted to let Dean try it and get what he deserved, but just then a car passed them, moving slowly, and Sam recognised the driver.

"Put that away, Dean," he said reluctantly. "Just wait."

They watched Professor Langley turn the car into her driveway. She stayed in the driver's seat for a few moments after the car stopped and then slowly walked around to the trunk and opened it. She lifted a large brown bag of groceries out of the trunk, but stayed where she was, not moving toward the house.

Sam, swallowing back his misgivings, left the car and walked toward her. He didn't look back to see if Dean followed. He reached her just as the bag fell from her arms. Sam caught the bag before it hit the ground, crouched and set it down on the driveway and began to retrieve the few things that had spilled.

He straightened up with the bag in his arms just as Dean reached his side. "Let me help you with this, Professor."

She gazed at him for a moment, and Sam had the distinct feeling she wasn't really seeing him. She was certainly in no state to be driving. He wondered if she knew yet that her daughter was dead. Surely not...if she knew she wouldn't have been out shopping.

She brushed back a lock of brown hair and her eyes refocused. "It's...Sam, isn't it? Thank you."

"Yes, ma'am. Sam Winchester. Uh..." he nodded toward Dean, "this is my brother, Dean."

Professor Langley's eyes were red from crying, and her ringed hand shook as she reached out to take the grocery bag from him.

Sam shook his head, holding on to the bag. "It's alright, I'll carry it. You look tired."

"Thank you," she said again. She reached into the trunk for a second grocery bag; Sam gave Dean a look and Dean picked the bag up for her.

Sam walked beside the Professor toward her front door. "I...um...I heard about...Sarah," he said awkwardly. "I can't imagine what you must be going through." He heard the catch in her breath and hated himself for going on. "If there's anything I can do..."

She unlocked her door. "That's kind of you, Sam."

The door swung open and he followed her into the house, but not too far in. There was a bureau near the front door; he set her groceries down there. He saw nothing to be gained from interrogating this poor woman. Sam glanced at Dean and shook his head slightly, praying Dean would get the message.

Dean put down the bag he was carrying. He turned to Professor Langley. "Uh...would you mind if I use your restroom?" he asked.

"Dean," Sam warned, but it was too late.

The professor nodded. "It's okay, Sam. Second door on the left."

"Thanks." Dean walked that way, darting a significant look at Sam as he passed.

_You son of a bitch,_ Sam groused, but it was done now. He was alone with her. He met Professor Langley's eyes uncomfortably. "Is there anyone here...for you?" he tried. "Your husband?"

She managed a weak smile. "No, not right now, but my sister will be here soon. I won't be alone."

"Good. I mean, you shouldn't be, at a time like this. Do you know...do the police have any leads?"

She looked stricken. "Some..." she answered, twisting the ring on her finger round and around. "I...I couldn't tell them much. One moment she was there, and the next..." Tears sprang into her eyes.

Sam reached out, gently leading her to the nearest chair. "It's terrible, I know. You didn't see anyone nearby? No one at all?"

"No, only the playground supervisor. Sarah was playing with another little girl. I looked away for a moment, and..."

Where the hell was Dean? Sam didn't even have a kleenex to offer her. "I...uh...oh, hell. I don't know what to say, Professor. I'm so sorry. I...I know how things like this can affect a family." He could have elaborated; part of him wanted to, so she would know they weren't just empty words, but she had heard enough.

As Dean reappeared Sam said quietly, "We won't intrude any further, Professor. Dean, we should be going."

Dean got the point. "It was good to meet you, Professor," he said. She nodded and Dean headed for the door.

Sam lingered, feeling there was something more. When she looked up at him, he said, "Listen, I know you have your family and friends, but if there _is_ anything I can do...I'm not just saying it."

"Thank you, Sam."

He left her to her grief.

Back in the Impala, Sam ran both hands through his hair. He felt dirty. "I hope you're happy, dude," he snarled. Right in that moment, only for that moment, he truly hated his brother.

"Sammy, it's our job. It ain't nice, but we do what we've gotta do."

"_Your_ job, maybe," Sam insisted. He couldn't look at Dean.

"What did she tell you?"

"Not much. She said there were no adults around except the supervisor and herself. Sarah was playing with a girl she didn't know. There one moment, gone the next. No one saw her taken."

"Yahtzee," Dean whispered. Aloud, he said, "Same as the others."

"Exactly. We don't know anything new. Dude, we had no right... And," he rounded on Dean, "it's pretty obvious no one's found Sarah's body yet. Except you. Why didn't you call the cops?"

"And get myself arrested?" Dean looked determined. "Sammy, do you think I _like_ this? I know what that woman's goin' through. I hate it. But it's our job - alright, _my_ job - to make sure no other mom has to go through that. Now I know for sure what's doing it, we can stop it."

"Are you serious? I thought Dad told you to wait."

"He did. But the earliest he's gonna get here is tonight, Sammy. That could be too late to save the next kid. This son of a bitch isn't just killing 'em. He's stealing their souls. Can you go back to your library and just let that happen? 'Cause I sure as hell can't."

No. No Sam couldn't let that happen. "Do you have a plan?" he asked, knowing, even as he spoke, that this might mean the end of his safe, normal life.

"You bet your ass I do." Dean fired up the Impala's engine.

 

#### Note:

There are two well-documented theories about the possible supernatural origins of "Jack the Ripper", neither of them very plausible. The first, put forward by Roslyn D'Onston (a self-declared Satanist who was himself a suspect in the murder investigation) suggested that the Ripper was collecting ingredients necessary for certain Black Magic rituals. He's the one who pointed out that the murder sites formed the shape of a Latin cross, oriented with the head of the cross in the west (which is the reverse of the traditional orientation of a church). The second theory was Aleister Crowley's and is as Dean describes it in this story, with the exception that Crowley claimed the murder sites formed a pentacle on the map (they don't). Crowley's most compelling "evidence" for his theory was the notion that the magician/murderer would gain certain powers with each killing. After the third, he would gain the power of invisibility which was, according to Crowley, the reason "Jack the Ripper" was never caught. It _is_ true that on one occasion a policeman followed a man and a woman into what is described as a dead end - an alley leading to a locked factory gate - and found the woman dead and the man nowhere in sight. Of course, it wouldn't have been that hard for the killer to climb over the factory gate, but if you're a Winchester, invisibility is probably the more likely explanation.


	6. Chapter 6

#### Saturday, Noon

When they reached the motel, the first thing Dean did was check his phone. The battery died that morning so he'd left it charging while they talked to Professor Langley. He saw the voicemail notification at once.

"_Dean, Bobby told me what you're doing. I know I don't have to remind you of my orders. I'm on the road now. If there's a good reason you can't wait for me, call me._"

Dean leaned back against the motel wall. "Oh, crap."

"What's wrong?" Sam asked.

"Bobby ratted me out. I'd better call Dad." He took the phone outside to make the call. It was answered at once. "Hey, Dad."

"Where have you been?" John demanded curtly.

Sammy would have taken offence. Dean simply answered the question. "My battery was dead. I've been with Sammy, checking into our case. Dad, when will you get here?"

"If the cops don't stop me for speeding, I'll be there tonight, I hope. Dean, I want you to wait for me."

"Did Bobby tell you about the pact?" Dean asked. He could hear the rumbling engine of his dad's truck and knew John was on the road. But he was coming from halfway across the country. Could even John Winchester make it in time?

"Yes."

"There are four kids dead, Dad. He's gonna take another one today and that'll be the last he needs. If Sammy and I wait for you, it'll be too late."

John answered with a stream of obscenities.

Dad!" Dean objected, mock-offended.

"Alright, Dean, listen to me."

John's voice was all business, so Dean swallowed the wise-ass remark he'd been about to offer and shut up, listening.

"The magician may be targeting children, but it doesn't _have_ to be a child. If you force his hand, it could be you or Sammy on the slab. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"

Dean turned around, looking through the motel room window to where Sammy waited for him. The magician was stealing souls, and needed just one more. There are things worse than death, and this was one of them. Could he risk Sam in that way?

Dean swallowed. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Son, I understand you're up against a deadline, so you tell _me_ what you think you should do now."

This was familiar ground. "Sammy and I are headed to the carnival. That's where he is and I'm convinced that's where he's doing his killing. I guess we can limit it to recon, but if he's taken another kid, Dad, I'm not gonna sit it out. I can't."

For a moment, John was silent. "At least you've thought it through. Okay, Dean, you do what you have to. But keep me in the loop. I'll meet you boys at the carnival."

If John thought he was going to reach Palo Alto in time to do that, he must be driving even faster than Dean usually did. Dad was worried.

"Good hunting," John added.

It was only after he ended the call that Dean realised he hadn't mentioned the demon. He'd insisted on interviewing the professor to confirm that detail: _Sarah was playing with a girl she didn't know. There one moment, gone the next. No one saw her taken._ No one would suspect another child. It was the same demon, Dean was sure about that now.

Which meant Dean knew how to kill her.

***

"You don't have a gun?" Dean asked incredulously.

Sam slammed the Impala's door and walked around to the trunk. "Dude, I'm a student and I live in a dorm. If I got caught with a gun, I'd be kicked out."

"So don't get caught," Dean pointed out. "I wouldn't stay any place I couldn't keep a weapon handy."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, well, I'm not you, Dean."

"You got that right. You've got your priorities all fucked up." Dean glanced around to make sure no one was watching. He'd parked the car under a low-hanging tree that should conceal them from a casual glance. But there were three patrol cars that he could see, and probably cops all over the place. That was gonna be helpful.

Dean propped open the Impala's trunk and pulled out his backup gun. He handed it to Sam and watched him slide the clip out, check it and snap it back into place. Sam jacked a round into the chamber and thumbed the safety on. He said nothing, but his mouth was set in a grim line and there was something in his eyes Dean didn't like seeing.

"Sammy?" he tried.

Sam pushed the gun into his pants, concealed at his back underneath his coat. He looked over toward the carnival. "My priorities," he said flatly, "are mine. Not Dad's."

_Yeah, that's what's fucked up._ Dean opened the ammo box he'd been looking for but found it empty. He turned to Sam. "Listen. The magician is human, more or less, so regular bullets will work fine. But don't trust that just one shot will do it. He's a powerful son of a bitch."

"I remember," Sam said "Head, heart, chest upper left."

"Right. But the magician is only half our problem. If his demon is around, we'll have to deal with that, too."

"Dean," Sam began uncertainly, "if you shoot someone who's possessed by a demon..."

"It's not possessing someone." Dean slid the clip out of his own gun, showed the contents to Sam and pushed it back into place. "I've only got enough of these for one gun, Sammy, so if we find it, you leave the demon to me."

"Iron rounds? Will that work?"

Dean forced a smile. "_Consecrated_ iron, and it works like you wouldn't believe." He could still see the child's face exploding in a spray of blood and bone. He could still feel pieces of something too thick to be blood hitting him in the face and chest. Dean swallowed back the memory. If that demon bitch was back, he was going to make her wish she'd stayed in Hell.

Sam nodded. "Okay."

He didn't ask, which surprised Dean a little. He would have asked Dad. Sam simply trusted that Dean knew what he was talking about.

"Holy water." Dean handed Sam a bottle and pocketed one for himself. Then he pulled out the map, closed the trunk and spread the map on top. He dug a pen out of his pocket. "Okay. The pattern here looks like two Latin crosses, but in the Whitechapel murders the pattern was one cross. Like this..." He drew on the map, joining the two crosses he'd already drawn and blocking in the space between them. "Black mass means there'll be a black altar, and that's gonna be somewhere in this area." He circled the area where the arms of the cross joined. "In the carnival. What's there?"

Sam studied the map, then looked across to the carnival itself. "That's the funhouse. But Dean, I've been in there, man. I went over every inch of this place. I would have noticed a freaking altar."

"You're not thinkin', Sammy. You broke through an illusion covering the dead ground, because you knew it was there."

Sam's eyes widened as he got Dean's point. "You mean, maybe that's not the only spell of illusion. He's hiding his ritual space with glamour."

"Now you're catchin' on," Dean agreed. He looked over at the carnival. It was late on a Saturday afternoon and the field had attracted a crowd of people: teenagers, parents with children. "I don't think that's the only spell, Sam. I mean, look over there. Three kids are dead, and they all went missing from here. You'd think people would quit bringing the munchkins, wouldn't you?"

Sam rested both hands on the car, leaning over as he gazed at the crowd. "Misdirection," he said thoughtfully.

"Come again?"

"At the bar last night - Cat was worried about the murders. She said that maybe the women on campus might be at risk. But there's no reason to think that. People are scared, Dean, but they're scared of the wrong things. Maybe that's deliberate."

"Huh. You know what, Sammy, if you're right, that's a hell of a spell." He nodded toward the small cluster of patrol cars. "It ain't workin' on them, though."

"Maybe it is. I mean, a police presence here makes sense, but they won't see anything. This guy can snatch a kid from right in front of them and they won't even notice."

"No kid is gettin' snatched today." Dean folded the map and slid it into his back pocket. "We find him, and end this. Today."

***

It was called _The Crazy House_, in large neon pink letters which, Sam thought, did not bode well. The façade was painted in ugly pastel shades like a child's drawing of a house, complete with cutesy painted flowers along the base of the wooden "wall". It was impossible to tell from the outside what might be behind that saccharine façade. It was a big structure, though. Plenty of room inside for a ritual slaughterhouse.

"Freaky," Sam commented.

"Yeah, look at those flowers. That's gotta be evil." Dean looked at the line of kids queuing to go inside. They were mostly older kids - he saw no one younger than eight - but Dean had told him about their father's warning. Just because the magician's been targeting the little ones doesn't mean he won't settle for something different. Every one of those kids was in danger.

"Let's go." Dean walked forward to join the line.

Sam looked up at the structure towering above them. "You know, if we can figure out where inside he's likely to be, we'll have to use something other than sight to break through the glamour. Touch maybe?"

Dean snorted. "That'll be inconspicuous."

"You got a better idea?" Sam asked, then stopped as his phone rang. He answered it.

"Hey, Sam."

"Rache? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. You've got a date tonight, remember?" Rachael went on without waiting for Sam to answer. "I know we talked about a movie but there's nothing showing we could agree on so we thought we'd do the carnival instead."

"What? No!" God, not at the carnival! And Sam had completely forgotten he'd agreed to a date.

"Why not?" Rachael sounded surprised. "It'll be fun, and - "

"Rache, I meant I can't make it tonight. I'm sorry."

"No. I'm not letting you back out again!"

Sam sighed, turning away from Dean as he spoke. "Rache, my brother is here. I haven't seen him for two years."

"He seemed happy to tag along." Rachael answered instantly. "Listen, Sam, we're all meeting at nine. Why don't you and your brother join us for a couple of hours. Fun guaranteed, and then you two can sneak off and do your male bonding."

Despite himself, Sam laughed. Male bonding? Several replies came to mind, but none he dared utter with Dean right beside him. He wanted to tell her to avoid the carnival like the plague, but how was he going to explain that? He couldn't. But he and Dean were there, now. They had the rest of the day to find this magician.

(In broad daylight, in a crowded carnival. Yeah, that was going to be easy.)

And John Winchester was on his way to Palo Alto. If Sam and Dean couldn't find it, he would.

It was the thought of his father that made Sam answer, "Okay, Rache, you've got a deal." Dean was eyeing him impatiently. "I've got to go, but I'll see you and everyone later, okay?"

"Deal," Rachael said and hung up the phone.

"Shit," Sam swore, pocketing his phone as they reached the head of the line.

Dean paid for their tickets. "Dude, did you just make a date?"

Sam shrugged. "I didn't have a lot of choice. They're coming here."

"Great. Just great."

***

Sam followed Dean through a rotating door into a room that was painted completely black. The room was lit by a black light, illuminating the glowing geometric shapes painted on the walls, but very little else. The shapes on the walls were very cleverly done: the design was calculated to distort the viewer's sense of perspective, making the room appear to shrink as you moved through it. Without speaking, Sam and Dean split up, each of them taking one side of the room.

Sam moved slowly down the left side of the room, alert for anything that might suggest what he saw wasn't what was really there. But the whole point of this place was to distort perception. The door behind them spun again and a group of laughing children burst through. They ran through the room, pushing and shoving at each other, followed by a woman - probably mother to one of them - walking more slowly. The eldest boy flung open the door at the far end of the room. Daylight flooded in just as Sam passed a mirrored panel on the wall. He caught his own reflection on the edge of his vision and jerked back, not expecting it.

He turned around, expecting some wise-ass remark from his brother, but apparently Dean hadn't been watching. Sam reached out to touch the mirror, just in case. It felt like glass, smooth and cool, but his fingers came away dusty. Sam moved toward the exit door.

Dean was behind him as Sam emerged into the light. Sam glanced at the dust on his fingers and nudged Dean. "Check it out."

"Sulphur," Dean said with no evidence of surprise.

"We're in the right place."

Dean nodded agreement.

The funhouse felt like an assault course. They walked through a pipe six feet in diameter, constantly rotating. To get through it they had to step over a group of teenagers who apparently thought sliding up and down the wall was great fun. The pipe led them to a spiral staircase with jets of air blowing up through the steps, across a bridge with a moving floor and then into a mirror-maze. There was a narrow passageway to the side for those who wanted to bypass the maze. Sam ignored it, walking through the one-way gate into the maze. Only when he was inside did he realise why he'd done it.

Sam had become lost in a maze like this once when he was little. The maze hadn't been especially complex, but the panels of plain glass, of metal mesh, distorting mirrors and regular mirrors easily confused the child he was then. His dad, waiting at the exit, wouldn't let Dean come to Sam's aid: he insisted that Sam find his own way out. By the time Sam battled his way to the exit, he was almost in tears. But it wasn't being lost that had panicked him. It was being able to see his dad and Dean, actually seeing them there, but being unable to reach them no matter which way he turned.

"Lost already?" Dean pushed him forward.

It was an old memory and Sam shook it off easily. "Not even," he replied, and it was true. Sam had already been through this maze once, searching for EMF before Dean ever arrived. He had no trouble finding the right path this time. Again there was that uneasy feeling that attempting to locate a magical illusion in this place designed to make you see things not there was akin to hunting for a needle in a field full of haystacks.

On the far side of the maze, a brightly painted hexagonal chamber offered a choice of pathways. The first was a near-vertical slide that seemed to lead back out into the field. On the second wall a net of rope like the rigging on a pirate ship led into a padded tunnel. A sign in several languages declared that this route was for under-12's only, and Sam knew the tunnel was too narrow for his shoulders. He hoped it was what it looked like: just a playground for youngsters, and not some kind of trap. The third wall was blank, just painted bright blue. The fourth led into a ball pool. The fifth door led to a staircase - that was the "chicken out" option - and the sixth wall led back the way they came: into the maze.

Dean headed straight to the blank wall, running his hands over the paint. He looked back over his shoulder to Sam. "Dude."

Sam moved out of the way of the next group escaping the maze. They were teenagers and went straight for the slide. Sam was watching the young children playing in the ball-pool below. They were an all-you-can-eat-buffet for the thing he and Dean were hunting, and he wished there was some way to warn them, or get them the hell out of the danger zone.

"Sammy," Dean said sharply.

Sam crossed to Dean's side. Another boy came running out of the maze behind him, looked around and started to swarm up the rope net.

"Yeah? You got something?"

"Maybe." Dean rapped on the wall with his knuckles. "This feels solid to me, but I think we're close. Can you smell that?"

_Smell what?_ Sam was about to ask, but then he did smell it. He shivered, another old memory crowding him. He was ten years old, holding a gun too large for his child's hands, pressed up against a wall, sheltering behind Dean. Gunfire thundered around them, and the scent of gunpowder was acrid in the air. He could even taste it. But there was another scent, too, even stronger than the gunpowder.

"Dragon's Blood incense, " Sam said aloud. He reached out to touch the painted wall. "There's got to be a door, or something..."

"I can't find it." Dean thumped the wall, hard, with his fist. "Damn it!"

"Sounds solid," Sam commented. He turned around slowly, trying to orient himself. The smell of incense was strong enough that it must be coming from someplace near. An open door or an air vent, maybe. Something. Something they couldn't see...

"Dean. The ropes."

Dean looked. He shook his head like he couldn't believe he didn't think of it. The rope net was heavy, secured at both sides but with room to move. It would swing about as you climbed it. Dean strode over to the net, pushing the heavy rope away from the wall. "Yahtzee. C'mon, Sammy." He slid behind the rope.

To Sam, it seemed Dean just vanished. He followed. It was a tight fit. He found the floor behind the ropes wasn't where he thought it should be. Sam dropped down. He was in a dark space like a small elevator. There was a door ahead of him, standing ajar and the scent of incense was even stronger. Sam drew the gun from his back and followed Dean inside.

***

It wasn't a room. It was a space beneath the funhouse. The ground beneath Dean's feet was dead grass. It crackled under his boots like dry twigs. Above his head was machinery working: part of the funhouse games. There was just enough space for Dean to stand upright. Sam had to stoop.

There was a circle of something black on the ground, marking the edges of the ritual space. Dean crouched down and touched it. The black stuff was cold and sticky on his fingers. He lifted his fingers in front of his eyes. It smelled awful, like meat left to rot. "What the hell?"

"Asafoetida," Sam said.

Dean grinned up at his brother. "You've got a good memory."

"And you're stalling."

Sam was right. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was find more pieces of children and he knew he was going to find just that. Dean straightened. "Sam, check the perimeter," he instructed.

Sam nodded.

Dean took a deep breath and forced himself to step over that black line into the ritual circle. From outside the circle, he'd been aware of the altar, but hadn't really noticed it. More magic? Or perhaps just his own reluctance. _You're a Winchester. Grow the fuck up._ He walked over to the altar.

It was stone, covered with a black embroidered cloth. Four black candles, unlit, stood on the corners of the altar. In the centre, white smoke curled upward from an incense bowl. The bowl was a human skull. There were five more bowls, each carved from what looked like obsidian. Four of them were filled with...oh, shit.

Dean moved closer because he had no choice now. He had to be sure. He touched nothing, but looked closely at the nearest bowl. It was half-full of blood. Red blood, that looked and smelled fresh, like blood in the movies. Not real. Human blood oxidised outside of the body, turning more brown than red, but somehow this was perfectly preserved. There were two more things. Almost covered by the blood was a piece of dark flesh. Meat. Something. To discover exactly what it was Dean would have to put his hand in there. He didn't do it. He knew enough. Sticking out of the bowl, like a spoon in a grisly bowl of soup, there was a clean, white bone. A child's rib.

Blood, flesh and bone held in an obsidian bowl. It was what Dean expected to find, but still, it was horrible. Not the sight itself - that would have made him hurl once, but no longer - but what it represented. Dean wasn't sure he believed in any kind of an afterlife, but if there _was_ a heaven this was designed to deny it to the souls represented by these bowls. Four children, all of them too young to be anything but innocent. Dean was going to enjoy killing the son of a bitch who did this.

Sam completed his circuit of the space. "More sulphur," he said. Sam looked at the altar and Dean saw the horror of it fill his eyes before Sam tore his gaze away.

_Sorry, Sammy. No time for a comforting hug._ "You good?" Dean demanded.

He saw Sam swallow. "I'm good." Sam nodded. "Dean...what if we bring the police here? The carnival is crawling with cops."

Dean just looked at him.

Sam spread his hands. "Well, we could! All the evidence is here, Dean, and that way we'll know for sure no one else will get hurt."

Dean nodded. "Okay. Let's say we do that. Let's say the cops believe we just found this craphole by accident and they don't arrest us both. It'll prevent another murder, sure. But they won't catch the magician. He's too powerful now. He'll just move on, try again someplace else."

"Maybe," Sam agreed. "We don't know that, Dean, not for sure."

"You've been out of the game too long, Sam." Dean took one more look at the altar. "It's not our decision anyway. Let's get out of here. I'm gonna call Dad."

The brothers turned to go.

Neither of them noticed the black eyes watching from the darkness.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Latin quoted in this chapter is from the requiem mass. A translation: _Deliver me, O Lord, from everlasting death on that dread day, when the heavens and earth shall quake; when Thou shalt come to judge the world by fire. I am seized with trembling and I am afraid, until the day of reckoning shall arrive and the wrath to come. That day, a day of wrath, calamity and misery, the great day and most bitter. Rest eternal grant them, O Lord; and let light perpetual shine upon them._

"Double espresso to go." John laid a few dollars on the counter, half turning as he spoke to keep the door in sight. He'd stopped only long enough to refuel - the truck and himself. He was still hours away from Palo Alto.

The waitress took his money with a smile. "Long journey?"

A friendly face was welcome but John wasn't in the mood for small talk. "Miles to go," he agreed. He took the paper cup from her and headed for the door without another word. Outside, the noon air felt thick and humid. He sipped the coffee. It was terrible, but he enjoyed the bitter taste. He needed the caffeine.

John climbed into the truck and sat behind the wheel while he finished the coffee. He crushed the empty cup, tossed it onto the seat next to him where it joined several others, and started the engine.

It was then that his phone rang. John snatched it up. "John Winchester."

"It's me, Dad."

Dean. At last. "Report," he ordered.

Dean talked. John listened, steering with one hand as he turned the truck back onto the road. He didn't interrupt, didn't ask questions. He didn't need to: Dean's report was thorough.

"Sammy thinks we should call the cops," Dean concluded. "What do you want us to do?"

John considered it. Calling in the police at this point would end the string of murders. But it wouldn't save the souls of the earlier victims. There was no choice. "No. Keep that option in reserve. Do it if you have to, but I want to handle this our way."

"Me too."

"Good. Are you and Sammy still at the carnival?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then don't leave. You haven't spotted the magician yet?"

"No. It's not like this place is an easy stake-out, Dad, but we'll keep looking." Dean hesitated, then, speaking more quietly, added, "Dad, about the sulphur we found around the altar..."

John knew Dean was remembering the last demon they faced. "That's not a surprise, son. You already knew a demon is involved. You know how to handle that if you need to." He waited, but Dean didn't answer. "Dean, is there something you're not telling me?"

"I've told you everything. Why wouldn't I?"

"Then you have your orders." It was the best he could do for Dean. John understood Dean's fear, but Dean was a hunter. He, like John, had to confront the things he feared. Whether or not this was, as Dean believed, the same demon as before, Dean had to deal with it.

All John could do for him was be at his side when it hit the fan.

A few moments later, John pocketed his phone and floored the gas, continuing his long drive west.

***

Sam caught the soda Dean tossed at him. The can hissed as he opened it. Dean was cramming hot-dog into his mouth like he was starving. Sam watched his brother watching the funhouse. He saw the way Dean absently stroked his gun as he gazed at the kids gathered in front of the blue and pink façade. A frown creased Dean's brow as he ate.

Three children had gone missing from this carnival; they'd been carved up like so much meat inside that funhouse. The fourth victim vanished from a play area only a couple of miles away from the carnival. Parents should be scared. They should be keeping their kids at home, safe, or at the very least supervising their every move. And yet the carnival was as popular as ever. A spell was the only explanation that made sense.

Dean checked his watch and Sam saw his frown deepen.

"That won't get him here any quicker," Sam pointed out unhelpfully.

"I know that," Dean answered tensely. His eyes flicked to Sam as he spoke, but then he went straight back to watching the children.

Sam had never seen Dean so determined, so focussed. It was almost as if he was watching his father, not his brother. Maybe that wasn't such a surprise. John trained Dean, after all, and Dean was always a keen hunter.

He wanted to ask what it had been like for Dean after he left. Leaving was selfish, Sam knew that when he did it, but he couldn't regret his choice. Still, what was life like for Dean now? Sam had seen the storm coming; that was one of the many reasons he'd needed to get away. While he was still at high school, the realities of the system forced John to retain some stability in their lives: a home, of sorts, for all it never lasted. Without that, Sam feared what their lives were going to become: a never-ending hunt, one monster after another, never stopping, always driving, only Dean and Dad for company... The vision scared the shit out of him. And he'd abandoned Dean to that life. He saw the scars in his brother now. Dean had changed.

But it wasn't just that. Sam knew there was something Dean hadn't told him about this hunt. Normally, Sam wouldn't let that lie. He would ask, and keep prodding. He'd drive Dean crazy with questions until he spilled whatever he was hiding. But that was then. This was a new Dean: a Dean who seemed as closed as their father always was. Sam didn't ask.

He passed Dean what was left of the soda.

It was a long, long day. They stayed at the carnival, mostly watching the funhouse, but every hour or so they walked around the field. By the time darkness began to fall, they both knew every inch of the place. They knew the faces of the cops patrolling the area. They knew every game and ride and the carnies running them.

Night changed the carnival to a kaleidoscope of noise and whirling light. Music boomed from speakers: a loud, rock beat to compete with the tunes of the carousel the din of bells ringing on rides and games, carnies shouting their constant patter and people holding shouted conversations because just talking wouldn't cut through the noise. People carried toys with spinning lights or glow-sticks; children - mostly older children, now - wore strings of glow-in-the-dark beads and crowned themselves with fluorescent hoops. The rides shone with lights, spinning and moving so that within the carnival itself Sam could see everything as clearly as by daylight. But it was a different place - a different energy from daytime. Older...darker.

They were on another circuit of the field when Sam saw the cops. There were two of them, one talking on a radio. Not an unusual sight, but Sam saw the cop's face as he listened to the radio, and he knew. He slapped Dean's arm, jerking his head toward the pair. "Dude. Five-oh."

Dean glanced over and his expression hardened. "Stay here," he ordered and before Sam could object Dean was gone, blending in with the crowd, following the two cops.

Sam swore under his breath and followed Dean. But Dean was already out of sight. He had to settle for moving through the crowd in the right direction, his eyes searching everywhere for some sign of his brother.

"I told you to wait!" Dean grabbed Sam's arm and pulled him into the shadows behind one of the games.

"Yeah, well, I was never good at taking orders. What did you find out?"

Dean pulled out his phone, not looking at Sam. "A boy is missing. Mom's having hysterics, says the kid vanished in front of her eyes." He was pushing buttons on his phone as he spoke. He half-turned away from Sam. "Dad, it's me."

Why was Dean shutting him out? They were supposed to be a team. Dean knew better than to do this - at least in the middle of a hunt. Sam listened to Dean tell their father what he knew. He'd always given Dean shit about the way he relied on their father. Did _John_ tell Dean to keep Sam out of the loop?

_If you walk out that door, Sammy, don't come back. You walk out on your family now, you're not family any more._

"No!" Dean exclaimed. "No, Dad, the kid might be dead by then. You've gotta let me take care of this one." Dean looked at Sam, his expression determined, even angry. "Yes, I've got it," he said flatly. Dean turned the phone off. "Sam, let's go."

***

There was a fire exit at the rear of the funhouse. It became their entry route. Dean glanced around to be sure no one saw them as they slipped inside. He waved Sam ahead of him, closed the fire door behind them and overtook Sam, taking the steps two at a time. Sam followed as closely as he could. He had an uncomfortable feeling that Dean would be happier with their dad backing him up instead of Sam.

Well, Sam was all the backup he had.

There were fewer people in the funhouse this time, and all of them were older: teenagers, mostly. Sam could smell the incense, stronger than before, as he slipped behind the rope net. He dropped down into the space below and waited for Dean. He could hear a child crying. He drew his gun.

Dean dropped down at his side and Sam automatically shifted position so they could cover every corner of the space between them. Dean met his eyes. He didn't need to ask _are you ready?_ \- Sam understood. He thumbed the safety off on the gun he held and nodded.

Dean kicked the door open and they both burst through.

The smoke stung Sam's eyes. It wasn't just incense. A brazier stood there, glowing coals within it, and something that Sam hoped was just green wood smoking atop the coals. It filled the space with smoke, made it harder to see.

But the altar was still there, marked out by its black candles with their flickering flames. A figure stood before the altar, robed and hooded, his back to the brothers. Sam could still hear the child crying, but saw no sign of the boy. He took careful aim. He was the one with the regular bullets. Dean would need to save his special ammo for the demon.

He saw Dean's small nod. Sam fired. Three rounds, just as he'd practiced month after month when he was a kid. He knew his aim was good, but the bullets passed through the figure as if it were smoke.

"Illusion," Sam said grimly. Three bullets wasted. As he spoke, the hooded figure dissolved in front of his eyes. "Shit." How the hell were they supposed to fight when they couldn't rely on their own eyes?

How? Carefully. They moved in, back to back, covering every angle. Sam felt his eyes begin to tear up in the smoke. He blinked hard and kept up with Dean. It was like fighting through tear gas, but he knew how to do that. Try to breathe normally, and don't panic.

There was no sign of the magician or his demon. The boy was curled up on the ground beside the altar. His arms covered his blonde head, as if he expected something to fall on him, but as far as Sam could tell through the smoke, the boy wasn't hurt. Just scared to death and crying constantly, wordlessly.

"Dean," Sam said quietly.

"Give me your gun." Dean held out his hand and Sam passed him the gun. He waited while Dean positioned himself to cover their backs.

Sam crouched down to approach the boy. He held a hand out toward the blonde-haired child. "Hello. You're safe now. It's okay." He kept his eyes on the boy, concentrating on him. The poor kid was so scared...with good reason.

Invisible fingers grasped Sam's face, twisting his head back and to the left. He reacted instantly, thrusting an elbow into the space behind him even as he felt the sharp edge of cold steel at his throat. His elbow connected with something solid.

"Dean!" he gasped out. The unseen knife cut into his skin, but the touch of ghostly fingers was gone.

Dean was already there. He fired once into the space above Sam's head. "Where is he? I can't see him!"

"Just shoot!" Sam ducked down, getting out of Dean's line of fire. The boy tried to scramble up. Sam grabbed the boy and pulled him down, covering his body as best he could while the kid struggled against him.

Sam could feel his own blood flowing down his neck, soaking into his shirt.

Dean fired over his head, twice, three times.

A body clothed in a black robe fell, heavily, beside Sam and the boy. Until that moment, the magician hadn't been visible at all.

Sam swallowed his heart and started breathing again.

He felt Dean's hands on his body, helping him up. "Sammy? Sammy, are you okay?" His eyes widened. "Oh, shit, Sam..."

Sam covered the bleeding wound with his hand. "I think I'm okay." He struggled upright.

"You're bleeding."

"He tried to cut my throat. Of course I'm bleeding!" He looked at his hand, judging the amount of blood he was losing. He felt surprisingly calm about it. "It's shallow. Nothing to worry about. Is he dead?"

"I think so." Dean looked around at the fallen magician. Then he looked up. He stood and turned around in a slow circle. "Sam, get the kid out of here."

"I'm not leaving you..."

"Yes, you are. Get the kid to safety." Dean dug into a pocket and threw something at Sam. Sam caught it by reflex: the keys to the Impala. "Medkit's in the trunk. Patch yourself up. There's a can on the right side under my crossbow. Bring me that and as much salt as you can carry."

Sam nodded. "What's in the can?"

Dean smiled. "It ain't napalm, but it's almost as good. A home-made surprise. Now, go, Sam. Go!"

Sam scooped up the still-crying boy and ran for the exit. He shifted the boy in his arms, but he was going to need both hands to climb back up. He glanced back at Dean, then crouched down and set the boy on his feet. "My name's Sam," he said. "What's yours?"

The boy opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

"It's okay," Sam said softly. "Everything's going to be okay. Just tell me your name."

"R-Robbie Burgess."

Sam smiled. "Okay, good. Now, Robbie, I need you to climb up on my back and hold on, okay? I'm gonna get you out of here and back to your mom." He leaned forward, patting his own back. "C'mon. Just hold on tight."

The boy did as he was told, wrapping his small arms around Sam's neck tight enough to choke him. Sam didn't tell him to ease off. He reached upward for a hand hold and hauled himself upward, leaving Dean behind.

***

Dean covered the magician with Sam's gun. He walked cautiously around the unmoving body. Was he really dead? Or was this another illusion?

He reached the magician's hand and kicked the knife away from it. The blade was stained with Sammy's blood. Dean stepped deliberately on the man's fingers. There was no reaction.

Okay. So far, so good. Dean crouched down beside the magician's head. Blood was pooled around his head, soaking into the dead ground beneath. Dean set the barrel of his gun against the back of the magician's skull and, using his free hand, felt for a pulse at his neck. He found nothing. He was tempted to blow the son of a bitch's brains out anyway, just to be sure...but John would tell him not to waste the bullets. So he straightened up and reached for his bottle of holy water.

He drew the bottle out of his pocket and it slipped from his hand as if the bottle were coated in oil. Icy fingers of fear traced down his spine. He abandoned the bottle and began to turn around, raising his gun.

"Stop." It was the voice of a child.

And Dean's body froze in place, mid-motion. It was just like playing statues as a kid, except this was involuntary. Dean tried to move. He struggled desperately to move. But his body remained utterly still.

"Turn around," the child's voice said clearly.

Dean found his body moving. His weight shifted, completing the motion he'd begun. His hand, holding the gun, hung limp at his side. His finger was still on the trigger but he couldn't do a damn thing with it.

He saw the child behind him at his body turned around. Dean expected to see the demon he'd killed before: the pretty, black-eyed girl with the tumbling golden curls. Instead he saw a boy.

_He saw the same boy who had just left with Sam._

Exactly the same, right down to the grass stains on his pants...except for the eyes. This boy's eyes were black as oil.

_Oh, god. Sam!_

Dean didn't try to explain it to himself. He didn't care how this was possible. He knew only that he'd sent Sammy away, alone, with this thing. And Sam was unarmed now, and hurt.

The boy - the _demon_ \- took a step toward Dean. Just one step. Dean couldn't move. He couldn't raise the gun or reach for his holy water. Fuck this! He had to forget what he couldn't do...what _could_ he do?

It was a demon... John said an exorcism wouldn't work, but maybe something similar would. Dean searched his memory for something - anything - that might save him. Dean never prayed; he had no faith in God and had never believed prayer would do any good. But the words that came to him were the words of a prayer. Dean couldn't move, but he _could_ speak.

He chanted the words aloud. "_Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna in die illa tremenda, quando caeli movendi sunt et terra_..."

He thought he saw the demon flinch, but it recovered quickly. It laughed, high and clear and Dean wondered if he'd imagined that small flinch. It was standing over the magician's body. Dean watched, helpless to move as it stretched out a tiny hand over the body. The body rose from the ground and flipped over as if moved by unseen hands.

_Holy crap!_ Dean's breath stuttered and he struggled to recall the next line. Latin was never his best language... "..._dum veneris iudicare saeclum per ignem_..."

Blood slowly disappeared from the magician's face, as if his skin were absorbing it. Dean watched in horror as a bullet extracted itself from the dead man's chest and rose into the air. And another.

"_Tremens factus sum ego, et timeo, dum discussio venerit atque ventura ira._"

This time the flinch was clear. He hadn't imagined it! Dean watched the demon child scoop the bullets out of the air and step over the magician's body, advancing on Dean. He cursed himself for letting Sam out of his sight. He remembered the blood on Sam's neck. _Please let Sammy be okay. He's gotta be okay._

"_Dies irae, dies illa, calamitatis et miseriae, dies magna et amara valde._"

The demon's mouth curled in a snarl. "It's not about him, Dean Winchester. He's marked already."

Dean didn't have time to process the words. "If you've hurt my brother, I swear to god..." He fought to lift the gun, to get it aimed. It didn't work. He couldn't move his hand. But his finger was still on the trigger and that moved. The gun went off, the report loud in the small space and the gun jerked in his hand. Dean felt the bullet hit the ground, a hair's breath away from his boot. _Shit! Don't try that again!_

"_Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine; et lux perpetua luceat eis._" That was all he could remember of the Latin.

The face in front of him dissolved, the body, the clothing melting into a new shape. At first, Dean didn't understand. Then he recognised the boy now standing before him. He knew that dark, curly hair, the big, serious eyes. It was Sammy. Sammy at six years old. Sammy, his black eyes boring into Dean.

"I'm not going to hurt Sammy," the demon said, and the voice, too, was exactly the voice Dean remembered. "But _you_ will."


	8. Chapter 8

Demons lie.

Dean knew it. It was rule number one when dealing with hellspawn. Never trust them, never believe them. So when this _thing_ wearing his baby brother's face told Dean that Sammy was unharmed, Dean didn't dare to believe it.

Demons lie. So when the demon told him _he_ was going to hurt Sammy, Dean didn't believe that either. Not for a second. He forced a laugh. "What are you nuts? I'd never hurt Sammy. Nothing you can do is gonna change that."

The demon smiled Sammy's smile: happy, a little wary. "You think so?" he said.

"I know so," Dean answered confidently. His mind was racing. Should he even be talking to this thing? What would Dad do? Dad... He would say don't engage. Don't let it mess with your head. On the other hand, as long as the demon was talking, it wasn't turning Dean into so much shish-kebab. If Sammy _was_ okay, he would be back. Dean clung to that hope. He had to stay alive that long.

In the fall of 1888, a serial killer in Whitechapel, London, murdered six women. This man, dubbed "Jack the Ripper" by the newspapers of the day, was never caught. Four of his victims were found mutilated in the dark streets. The mutilation was so precise, so specific that police were convinced the Ripper had some knowledge of surgery. A fifth victim was found dead, but her body untouched: the killer was interrupted in his work and abandoned the ritual, but killed again that same night. The sixth and final victim, however, was not killed on the streets. She was murdered in her own home. What Jack the Ripper left behind in that small room was barely recognisable as having once been human. In a time long before dental records or DNA, the victim could be identified only by the location: the police simply assumed she was the person who lived in that small room. After that terrible bloodbath, "Jack the Ripper" disappeared. He was never identified and never struck again.

Why? Everyone from teenage conspiracy theorists to ex-FBI profilers seemed to have a theory. Very few knew what Dean knew: that the Ripper disappeared because he had finished what he set out to do. That the terrible mutilation inflicted on Mary Kelly happened because the climax of the Ripper's pact with the devil required a very special sacrifice.

The thought was not comforting.

Dean struggled to move but the effort was useless. The demon walked around to stand over the magician's body. He gestured, and the body rose from the ground like a puppet on strings. The black robe (and that was so ostentatious, dude, why were Satanists always such dramatists?) didn't show the blood which Dean knew must have soaked into the cloth, but he did see the holes in the cloth made by his bullets.

"Nice trick," Dean said casually. "Can you make it dance, too?"

The magician opened his eyes.

Those eyes were human. Steel grey eyes below heavy brows in the face of a man who seemed to be in his late 30's. He was also very much alive.

Dean had shot him. He knew he hadn't missed. Three bullets - two in the chest, one in the middle of his forehead. No one human could survive that. It was totally against the freaking rules.

The demon stretched out a hand and the discarded knife, still spattered with Sam's blood. It ran the knife across its small hand, cutting deep.

Dean reached out automatically, trying to stop his little brother from hurting himself.

As soon as he realised what he was doing, Dean stopped, but it was too late. The demon smiled, an evil smile Dean never saw on Sammy's face. Demon. Fuck. The image of his six-year-old brother was so perfect that for a moment, Dean thought...

Not-Sammy held the bloody knife up to the magician.

"Him?" The magician's voice betrayed surprise.

"Him." The demon's features dissolved into mist as it spoke.

Despite the confirmation that they were going to kill him, Dean was relieved. Anything would be better than this thing wearing Sammy's face. He should have known it wouldn't be that easy.

The demon's black eyes turned to Dean again. It smiled a happy smile and its face was still Sammy's face. Older, now, ten years old, maybe. His hair was less curly but still tousled and too-long. The clothing changed, too, and the demon was wearing...oh, shit. It was that dumb Florida t-shirt Sammy had loved so much. He'd worn that silly shirt threadbare that year, even patched it himself, until...

"You son of a bitch," Dean whispered. _Don't let it mess with your head._ Dean understood now. The demon told him he would hurt Sam. Then it showed him Sammy at six, the first time he'd been hurt because of Dean. Now, it showed him Sammy aged ten, in that dumb t-shirt, which was what he'd been wearing when Dean, who was supposed to be watching his little brother, got distracted and turned his back long enough for the werewolf their dad was hunting to claw the shirt off Sammy's back. Sammy still carried the scars; he was lucky scars were all he got out of that attack.

Sammy cried all night over losing that dumb-ass t-shirt.

John grounded Dean until the next full moon, letting him out of his room only for school and training. Sammy almost died, and it was Dean's fault. Again.

But Dean hadn't _hurt_ Sammy. Not when the shtriga fed on him and not when the werewolf attacked. He would never hurt Sammy!

That was when the demon released him.

Dean had been frozen in place for so long he'd begun to relax into it. His hand, still holding the gun, felt numb. When the demon's power was withdrawn so abruptly he staggered and almost fell. Dean didn't hesitate. He let the gun fall from his hand, because it was useless. He let his body fall, using the movement to cover, as best he could, his reaching for the gun at his back. The one with the iron bullets. His hand closed over the gun. He was down on one knee, starting to aim the gun, his finger squeezing down on the trigger...

...and he looked into Sammy's eyes again. The demonic black was gone, and he saw Sammy at sixteen, his brown eyes human, hurt and confused. Sammy, with blood running down his cheek from a gash that Dean put there, the one and only time they'd had a truly serious fight.

Dean couldn't do it. He couldn't pull the trigger on this image of Sam's face. Not to save his own life. Dean knew it was a mistake, knew it was the dumbest thing he'd ever done in his life. He lowered the gun, slowly.

Sammy smiled. "Dean, this is gonna be so much fun," he said gleefully. "A willing sacrifice is always so much more tasty."

Dean raised the gun again, but the demon gestured and the gun flew from his hand before he could aim. It gestured again, and Dean felt his body rise off the floor.

His head hit the stone altar and he knew no more.

***

In Dean's experience, waking up nude, with a bitch of a headache, usually meant he'd been having a hell of a good time.

Not this time.

For starters, he wasn't in a bed. He was lying on rough, uneven ground. Dried grass prickled his bare buttocks. There was a sharp stone under his ass and another under his shoulder. The air he was breathing still smelled of incense and woodsmoke.

Dean opened his eyes a crack, hoping to get a look at his surroundings without his captors realising he was awake. The magician was kneeling beside him, an array of tools laid out beside him as if for surgery. No, for butchery. Dean tried not to dwell on what that meant for him.

His body was stretched out in front of the stone altar in a cruciform position. Each of his hands was bound to the stone. His ankles were bound, too, but as far as he could see or feel, his feet weren't tied _to_ anything. Not that that helped much: he still couldn't move.

He saw no sign of the demon.

Sam was dead. There was no other explanation. If Sam were alive, he would have come back for Dean by now. If he were alive but couldn't come himself for some reason, he would have called the cops, or their dad, or someone. He would never have abandoned Dean. Sammy was dead.

The thought brought a grief that flooded his eyes with tears and closed up his throat. Sammy. Sam.

And guilt, because Sam was Dean's responsibility. He always had been. Dean sent Sam away with the demon. Whatever happened to Sam (oh, god, don't let it have been bad) it was Dean's fault.

And fear, fear of what would happen when his father learned of all this. Dean was a dead man, either way, but he knew John's rage would be terrible. A small, cowardly part of Dean was almost glad he wouldn't live to see it.

And anger and hate. Because if Sam was dead, all that remained was revenge. But for revenge, Dean needed to live. He needed to live!

As the decision crystallised in his mind, Dean saw the magician reach for one of his tools. Dean had less than a second to decide what to do. Years of training kicked in and Dean didn't waste time thinking about it. He acted.

He raised his bound legs, bending his knees and swinging around, pivoting his lower body on one buttock. The magician saw him move, but desperation lent Dean speed. He kicked out and his feet connected with the magician's body. He heard the magician's surprised "Oof!"

Dean twisted his body, pulling on the bonds at his wrists, but they were too tight.

The magician fell, but picked up a knife as he fell, and slashed wildly at Dean's body. Dean cried out as the knife sliced into him. He couldn't get free.

The sound of a gun cocking was unmistakeable.

"Dean!" Sam's voice called.

"Sammy!" he yelled back. His brother's voice was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard. An instant later, he had time to wonder if this was really Sam. Did he dare to believe it?

"Dean? Where are you? I can't see you!"

Dean thrashed from side to side, trying to see where Sam was. "Shoot him, Sam! Just fucking shoot!" Pain lanced through his so-recently-healed wrist and Dean bit his lip to keep from crying out.

Sam stepped around the altar. He was armed with Dean's gun, and he had it raised to fire, but he wasn't aiming at the magician. It looked as if Sammy couldn't see him at all. But he saw Dean. Their eyes met and a look of mingled relief and fear flashed across Sam's face.

Sam was scared; Dean was terrified. If Sam couldn't see the magician...

The magician was beginning to rise, a weapon in his hand.

"Sam!" Dean signalled frantically with his eyes. "Shoot! Shoot!"

Sam laughed. He knelt beside Dean on the opposite side from the magician. "Dude, you look like hell."

Dean felt the strength drain out of his body as his hope died. "You're not Sammy."

The thing in Sam's shape smiled. "Are you so sure?" he asked in Sam's voice.

Dean looked at him - it - whatever. It was Sam, down to the last detail. He was wearing the same clothes, his hair was the same, even the blood on his neck where the magician cut him.

Sam laid the gun down, very close to Dean's bound hand. He stretched his hands out in front of Dean's face. "I don't usually bother with a human suit. They're so limiting. But don't assume I can't. Maybe I found your brother...attractive."

"You fucking bitch!" Dean spat. "You're _not_ Sam. Even if that's his body, you ain't him."

The magician rose to his feet. He held a tool in his hand. It was a long, thin spike, like a carving tool, and Dean had an ugly suspicion that was exactly what it was.

Sam held up a hand in a _stop_ gesture. He laid a hand on Dean's arm. The touch was hot, blisteringly hot and Dean flinched away instinctively, the way you do when you touch a hot pan you're expecting to be cold.

"Ouch," Sam said, his voice flat and emotionless. "Did that hurt you, brother?"

Dean didn't answer.

Sam gestured, and once again Dean found his body moving as the demon directed, his legs stretching out again, the dead grass beneath his naked legs rough and prickling.

Sam got down on the ground beside him, laying on his front, propping his chin up on one hand. "Do you know what I'd really love?" he asked conversationally.

"Pizza, a six-pack and fifteen minutes alone with that waitress in Tampa?"

"Funny. No, big brother. What I'd really love is to watch my friend here carve you up alive." He closed his hand over Dean's injured wrist and squeezed. The pain was immediate. Dean actually heard his bones crack. He tried, he tried so hard to keep the pain inside, but he couldn't do it. He tasted blood in his mouth, saw stars before his eyes, and it came out of his mouth in a scream.

Sam leaned closer, his eyes bright with happiness. "If it's done right," he said, still in that casual tone, "you can keep a human alive for days, slicing off a piece at a time. Fingers. Hands. Toes. Skin. Inch by inch. You'd feel all of it, Dean, and with each cut you'd know you were losing another little piece of yourself. Each cut a little closer to breaking you."

Fear almost closed his throat, but Dean managed to choke the words out past the fear. "You're one sick puppy. Anyone ever tell you that? Do it, then. Do your fucking worst."

Sam shook his head. "As much fun as that would be, Dean, baby, it's _nothing_ to what I can do when you're dead and I have your soul to play with in hell." He rolled over and stood up. "So, I'll forego that little pleasure, big brother."

Dean wondered if the demon realised it had left the gun near his hand. It didn't matter, though. He couldn't reach it. The pain in his wrist was like knives twisting inside him. He knew it was broken again. He tried to flex his fingers and the pain doubled, tripled. He wasn't getting free any time soon.

Sam smiled down at him. "He's yours," he said coldly.

The magician raised the thing in his hand and laid it against Dean's chest.

The one good thing about Dean's broken wrist was it hurt too much for the magician's first cut to make much of an impression. The magician sliced into Dean's flesh, shallow cuts, drawing some pattern or symbol on Dean's skin. Dean set his jaw. He was determined not to give them the satisfaction of letting them see his fear or his pain.

He tried to move, to make it harder for them, but he was held immobile. Or...almost. He tugged at the bonds with his good hand, testing them. There was a little give. He kept trying.

He looked up at Sam's face. More to distract than with any real hope, he said, "Sammy, Sam, please. Don't let this happen. Don't let him..."

Demon-Sam gave a childish little wave. "Bye-bye, Dean. See you in hell."

The magician set an obsidian bowl near Dean's body. He lifted a long, double-edged knife and laid it against Dean's throat.

The deafening report of a gunshot echoed in the small space. The magician's head exploded, spattering Dean's chest with blood and brains. Dean closed his eyes by reflex as the gore hit him but terror forced him to look again at once.

He heard a second shot before the magician's body even fell. Dean saw Sam clutch his chest, blood pouring between his fingers. Another shot, and a star of blood appeared between Sam's eyes.

Too late, Dean found his voice. "No! No!"

A last shot hit Sam's shoulder. The impact spun his body around and he fell like a broken puppet. His body was a dead weight across Dean's legs. Hot blood poured from him.

Dean, still trying to comprehend, looked down his body. Sam's face was turned toward him, the eyes open and quite dead.

"Sam?" Dean choked. "Sammy...?"

A figure came into view, moving around the altar.

John Winchester did not look at Dean. He gazed down at Sam's body and the expression on his face was terrifying to see.

Dean stared up at his father, with Sam's blood pouring over his own, naked body. "Dad? Holy fuck, Dad, what have you done?"

***

#### Earlier

"You're bleeding." Robbie touched the sleeve of his sweater, a look of distaste on his young face. Sam's blood stained the boy's clothing.

Sam set Robbie down on his feet. "Only a little," he said. He looked around them, staying in the shadows. "You're a very brave boy," he told Robbie.

"Where's mommy?" Robbie asked him.

_Probably still answering questions at the nearest police station._ "I'm not sure, Robbie," Sam answered truthfully. He crouched down to bring himself closer to the boy's height. "Look over there." Sam pointed. "You see the policemen?"

"Yes."

"I want you to run over to them as fast as you can, okay? You tell the police your name and that you've lost your mommy. They'll keep you safe and take you to her."

Robbie simply stared at Sam, mute. He made no move to obey.

If Sam carried the boy to the cops, bloodied up as he was, there would be too many questions. He needed to get back to Dean. So he grabbed Robbie's arms and turned him around to face the way Sam wanted him to go. "Run to the policemen, Robbie," Sam repeated. "If anyone gets in your way, just start yelling, real loud. You understand?"

"Yes."

"Okay." Sam gave the boy a little push. "Then run. Fast as you can."

Sam watched the boy begin to run, making a bee-line for the two cops. He would be okay now. Sam touched his neck, finding the blood still tacky on his skin. The kid would probably tell them Sam's name and Sam would be in serious trouble if they matched the blood on the boy's clothing to him, but he would just have to worry about that later. Sam turned away, keeping to the shadows, and began to head toward the Impala.

Behind him, the little boy stopped running. He watched Sam walk away, and, unseen by anyone, dissolved into smoke.

***

The Impala was where Dean left her, parked beneath a tree in the carnival's makeshift parking lot. Sam unlocked the trunk, found a flashlight and used that to search for Dean's medkit. He found it, opened it and discovered it was well-stocked. Everything he needed was there. Sam stripped off his coat and shirt and started to clean the blood from his wound with a cotton pad soaked in peroxide. It stung like a bitch. When it seemed to be clean, he covered the wound with a white absorbent pad and taped it in place. It was a rush job, and he'd have to check it out properly when he had some decent light and a mirror. But it would do for now.

Sam was pulling his shirt back on when he heard the car. Sam tugged the shirt straight and picked up a shotgun. Just in case. The truck, moving much too fast over the field, pulled in beside the Impala. Sam kept the shotgun at his side and reached up to close the trunk, aware that the contents were difficult to explain. But then the driver leapt out of the truck.

Sam felt his heart stop for a moment. Two years. Two years since he'd seen John Winchester. He'd been dreading this ever since he made that first phone call, but to see his dad, finally, the first thing he felt was just plain happy to see him.

It didn't last.

"Where's Dean?" John demanded. "Why isn't he answering his phone?"

Sam reopened the trunk and lifted the crossbow. "Good to see you, too, Dad," he answered. He heard the bitterness in his own voice. Of course, all John cared about was Dean. It was always Dean. His perfect soldier.

"Don't fuck with me, Sammy. Where's Dean?"

Sam lifted the can Dean wanted and a tub of salt. "He sent me back for these," he answered, trying to keep his voice even. He slammed the trunk closed and turned to face his father.

John hadn't changed. He looked at Sam, his eyes intense and focussed. He hadn't shaved for a few days. He wore a leather coat that hung oddly on the right side: Sam guessed it concealed a shotgun.

John had his back to the light, so Sam couldn't see his face clearly. He heard the anger in his voice, though. "You left Dean alone? _With a demon?_"

"There was no..." Sam began defensively. But the words died on his lips. He'd been about to say there was no sign of the demon, but even as he thought it he knew that was just stupid. They found sulphur. They found a black altar in a circle of asafoetida. You couldn't get more obvious signs of a demonic presence.

Sam had learned not to trust what he could see on this hunt. He'd learned the lesson, and allowed for it, and then made the same freaking mistake again. Just because they saw nothing, didn't mean the demon wasn't there.

He'd left Dean alone in there.

John took the can from Sam. "Don't make me ask you a third time, Sammy."

"Dean's at the funhouse. He told me to leave, Dad..."

"Of course he did! Tell me what's happened. Everything that's happened."

The _Of course_ widened Sam's eyes as something clicked together in his head. Dean wanted him out of there. Dean deliberately got rid of him. Why?

Sam took a deep breath, swallowing his questions with an effort. He described what they found inside the funhouse as they walked quickly toward the carnival.

***

Striding through the carnival with Sam at his side, John saw everything, and nothing. His eyes took in the lay of the land as he automatically identified risks, danger areas and escape routes. The damned field was full of civilians and that could make things complicated. You can't just pull a gun in a crowd, no matter how dangerous whatever you're hunting might be.

John had one plan, one plan only. Find Dean.

His heavy leather coat concealed a shotgun. He had two handguns, the first loaded with consecrated iron and held in his belt; the second with regular ammo in his coat pocket. He carried holy water, and more. He kept one hand in his pocket as he walked, caressing the gun.

Focus on the mission. Don't think of all the things you ought to be saying to your youngest boy. Don't even look his way. There isn't time for old-home-week. Find Dean.

"Sam!"

John's head snapped around at the sound of the woman's voice. He saw a girl about Sammy's age waving frantically. She wasn't alone. John counted six others, most of them looking Sammy's way. His friends, John assumed. The girl called Sam's name again. Enough.

"Friends of yours," John asked. He stopped walking, forcing Sam to do the same.

Sam glanced over as if he hadn't seen them until that moment. "Yeah. We planned to meet here, before..."

John interrupted, not interested in the explanation. "Then go to them."

"What? No! Dad, I'm goin' with - "

Why did Sammy always fucking argue? John had no patience for it. "Sam, the _only_ thing worse than us not finding Dean, will be finding him in that place with your friends following us. Obey orders for once in your life." He saw the stubborn look in his son's eyes and pressed on anyway. "Go to your friends. Tell them whatever rubbish you like but don't come near the funhouse until you've ditched them. Got it?"

Sammy nodded sullenly. "Yes, sir," he said in a voice that clearly meant _go and fuck yourself_.

_You haven't changed, have you?_ John ignored the tone and strode away from his son.

The directions Sam gave him were good. John found the fire door with no difficulty and made his way up to the place Sam described. When he saw the rope net John felt a moment's admiration for his boys. He wasn't sure he would have thought to look there. It appeared solid to him. But he could smell the incense and smoke. He lifted the ropes aside, ignoring the curious looks of the carnival-goers, and carefully lowered himself into the space behind.

John's gun was already in his hand as he landed. He was reaching to open the door when he heard:

"Sammy, Sam, please. Don't let this happen. Don't let him..."

And, before John could even wonder what the hell that meant, he heard Sammy's voice answer, "Bye-bye, Dean. See you in hell."

John pushed the door open. He had only an instant to take in the scene and to act. An instant was all he needed.

He shot the magician first. He was human so it only needed one shot. Then he turned his gun on the demon wearing his son's face. He didn't even hesitate. To kill a demon's corporeal form, one shot isn't enough. The sons of bitches heal. You have to destroy it.

So he fired - heart, head, lung - but even as the demon fell John knew it wasn't enough. He strode around the altar to finish the job. He looked down at the demon. It lay across Dean's naked body, not moving.

John couldn't shoot it again; he would hit Dean. He was about to move it so he could finish the job, when Dean spoke.

"Dad? Holy fuck, Dad, what have you done?"

It forced John to look at Dean, _really_ look. He saw that his son was bound to the altar, one wrist clearly broken, bruised and swollen. He saw that Dean was naked, and that someone or something had carved symbols into the skin of his chest. There were streaks of blood across his skin from those shallow wounds. And the demon, lying on top of Dean, its blood soaking into the grass.

Worst of all was the look on Dean's face. Disbelief, fear, shock, a dozen other emotions in his wide eyes. John realised, too late, that Dean believed the thing John shot really was his brother.


	9. Chapter 9

"Where have you been, Sam?" Rachael asked. She grabbed his hand - a typical Rachael gesture - and pulled him toward the rest of their friends.

Sam resisted and she looked at him, frowning. "Rache, I'm sorry, but I can't - "

"But you're here now!" she protested. "Where's Dean?"

"That's what I'm saying. I don't know. I need to find him, Rache."

Rachael stopped trying to tug on him and looked at Sam quizzically. "You're acting really weird, Sam. Is your brother...okay?" She made a gesture with her hand to her temple. _Is he okay in the head?_ the gesture said.

Sam felt his expression harden. "Dean's not exactly the poster-boy for college, but he's my brother, Rachael." Sam glanced back over his shoulder to the funhouse. His insides were fluttering, impatient. He wanted to go after Dean, but knowing his father was on the case did take some of the pressure off. Sam knew John could handle whatever was in there, with or without him.

But even as he finished the thought, Sam knew he was lying to himself. The lesson was drilled into him too well, too often. If you're expected as backup, you fucking show up. You do your job. You follow orders, or the blood is on your hands.

Sam turned back to Rachael, with no idea what he was going to say to her. He felt something prickle across his skin, like static electricity. The lights all across the carnival flickered. The music blaring from the speakers nearby crackled with white noise. Then, just for an instant, everything was silent and utterly dark. A moment later everything was back to normal. Sam would have wondered if he imagined it, except Rachael reacted, looking around her. "What the...? Wow. Freaky."

"Freaky," Sam agreed, his mind racing. The glamour that covered the carnival was gone. It was over...whatever his dad or Dean had done, it worked. That was good news, _great_ news...but it also brought a stab of guilt to Sam, because he knew that meant John was right: the demon had been with Dean. Shit.

So Sam met Rachael's look urgently. "Just ten minutes, okay? Listen, I'll meet you guys on the other side of the funhouse, by the Ferris Wheel. But right now, I have to go!" He took off before she had a chance to argue.

"At least come and meet..." Sam heard her call after him. He didn't stop walking.

Sam made his way through the funhouse for the third time that day. The route was familiar, now and he moved quickly. No distractions. He could still hear music and happy voices in the distance. His friends must think he was nuts. There was nothing to do about that now.

He pushed the rope net aside and there was no illusion blocking the way any longer. He dropped down into the space behind the net and drew the knife he'd borrowed from the Impala's trunk, though he didn't believe he would need it now. He steeled himself for whatever he might see and pushed the door open.

The first thing he saw was Dean. He spun around as Sam entered. His eyes widened when he saw Sam and he raised his gun, pointing it at Sam.

Sam froze, holding his hands away from his body so Dean could see him clearly. His eyes took in the scene.

Dean was naked to the waist, his face and chest streaked with blood. His left arm was limp at his side and Sam could see the wrist was badly swollen already. It was enough to tell Sam that Dean had been through something. But why was he afraid of Sam?

"Dean," Sam tried. "Dean, it's me. Sam."

"Prove it," Dean said. He cocked the gun.

John was some distance from Dean, behind the black altar. He said, quietly, "Dean, it's okay."

Dean shook his head stubbornly. "Prove it," he insisted.

Sam had no idea how he was supposed to prove what Dean wanted. He thought of showing Dean his car keys, but he had a horrible feeling he would be shot if he reached into his pocket. Then inspiration struck. "April third, nineteen ninety-nine," he said. The first time he'd beaten Dean at poker. It didn't happen often, so that should be a date they'd both remember.

Dean grinned, but he didn't lower the gun. "You cheated."

"You're the one who marked the deck."

"Christo," Dean said.

And Sam thought he understood. "I'm not possessed, dude. Would you put that thing down."

"Dean," John said again, and it was a warning this time.

Dean lowered the gun, but he didn't seem to relax.

"Jesus, Dean, what happened?" Sam asked, scared now. The smell of blood reached him, too strong for it to be just Dean's blood.

"Show him," John said curtly.

Dean moved to one side and Sam, following his eyes, walked around the altar. He saw the magician's body on the ground.

And then he saw the second body. Sam looked down into _his own face_, or what was left of it. He stared at his father, then at Dean, understanding the gun at last. "Dude..." he whispered, but he had no words to finish the sentence. All he could do was look back at his brother, hoping the look was enough.

Dean was a mess. Did he believe Sam did this to him?

"Sam." John's voice cut into the silence.

Sam straightened up, tearing his eyes away from Dean. "Yes, sir."

"We have to salt and burn everything to free the souls of those children. The bodies, the altar, all of it." He held out the salt.

Sam took it.

"Dean, can you finish dressing without help?"

"Been doin' that since I was three," Dean answered.

"Fine. Sam, do your job."

Sam wanted to argue but this was familiar territory. Dean needed a hospital, but he wouldn't get help until John said they were ready; which meant when the hunt was over. Damn both of them!

Sam lifted the salt and did his job. He poured salt over the altar and the ground beneath it. He salted the magician's body. He stood over the other with a handful of salt and hesitated. He wanted to ask so many questions but he knew he wasn't going to get an answer. Was this the demon, or some kind of shapeshifter? Who shot him...or it? Was it Dean?

John followed Sam around the ritual space, throwing gasoline over everything as Sam salted. When Sam hesitated over the second body, he laid a hand on Sam's shoulder, just for a moment. "Wait," he said. "Go help your brother."

Sam stepped back but he watched John pull a large bowie knife. John knelt beside the body that looked like Sam and calmly decapitated the body.

Sam would wish for a long time that he'd never watched that.

It shouldn't have been a big deal. He'd watched his father do far more unpleasant things. But somehow this was different. Because it was his face? Because they'd been apart for two years and Sam wasn't used to this shit any more? He didn't know.

John poured the last of the gasoline over the body and reached for Dean's canister.

"Dad, there are a lot of people around," Sam said uneasily. Dean hadn't said exactly what was in the can, but Sam knew it was an explosive. It seemed like overkill, especially with so many people at the carnival.

"I noticed," John answered. "Dean, can you climb?"

"I'm good." Dean sounded rough. He was halfway through pulling on his coat, wincing as he tried to get his broken hand into the sleeve. Sam moved to his side and lifted the coat, helping. Dean glared at him, but said nothing.

"Sam, help Dean climb out of here. I'll set a timer on this and meet you at the car."

"Dad, I don't think..." Sam started to protest.

Dean grabbed his arm. He made it seem like he needed Sam's support to stay on his feet, but Sam recognised the gesture as a warning. "Sam, let's just get out of here," Dean urged. Dean looked at John, who nodded.

"C'mon, Sammy." Dean squeezed Sam's arm again.

They headed for the exit together. Dean went first, and tried to pull himself up without Sam's help. But he automatically used his other hand to steady himself and fell back with an involuntary cry.

Sam linked his hands and gave Dean a boost upward. He followed quickly and found Dean in the hexagonal space above. He was looking around as if he'd lost something, looking first at the door to the maze, then toward the big slide, then to the next exit and the next.

"I swear there was a fire alarm," Dean said, before Sam could ask.

Of course. "Best way to get the civilians out," he agreed. "It's here." The alarm was on the wall beside the rope net. "Dean, how badly are you hurt?"

Dean pulled his coat closed and started fastening the buttons: something he never did. But it hid the blood nicely. "I think my hand's broken again. A couple of the cuts are gonna need stitches, but it looks worse than it is. Pull the alarm, Sam."

"Is Dad...?"

"He knows what he's doin'. C'mon, dude."

Sam pulled the fire alarm. Instantly, the alarm filled the air - a deafening, clanging bell. Dean moved toward the exit. Sam was about to follow him when he heard a child screaming. He looked around. It was hard to find where the scream came from above the alarm, but he thought it was the mirror maze.

"Dean, can you make it without me?"

Dean's look was exasperated. "Dude, I'm not dyin'! Just lost a little blood is all."

"Then go. Someone's trapped in the maze. I'm going to get them out."

Sam ran into the maze. He remembered the way through. Somewhere near the middle of the maze, two children were banging on the glass, unable to find their way and scared to death by the alarm. Sam could see their mother on the other side. She should have been waiting at the exit, but she wasn't. Why? It didn't matter. Sam reached the kids and spoke to them. He had to shout over the alarm. "It's okay, calm down. I'm gonna get you out of here. Just follow me."

The girl - she was about twelve - took his hand as he led them back through the glass and mirrors to their mother. "Come on, you've got to get out of here." He pointed to the narrow passageway that bypassed the maze. "Through here, and down the steps next to the slide. Hurry!"

He followed them until they got to the hexagonal space again. There, Sam showed them the way out and checked the other spaces: the play area above the rope net, and the ball pool below, to make sure no one else was in need of rescue. He saw his father climbing up just as he finished his search.

Sam explained before John could bite his head off again. "There were some kids trapped in the maze. I stayed to help. Dean's gone to the car." As he said it, he realised he still had the car keys. Dean was gonna love that.

John nodded. "Everyone's out?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Then run. I used a cigarette fuse so it'll blow any second."

Sam didn't think about it. He turned and leaped over the barrier to the vertical slide. It was the quickest way out of the funhouse, as the slide came out into the field below them. But Sam used a little too much force when he jumped. For a breathless moment, he found himself in freefall. Then he hit the curve of the slide. It was an awkward impact and he had to twist his body quickly to avoid a broken knee. That made the fall even more awkward and Sam ended up rolling downward. At least it was the right direction.

At the bottom, Sam rolled onto a padded mat that helped to stop his fall. He lay still for a moment, catching his breath, then scrambled to his knees and looked for his father.

A woman's voice called, "Sam! My god, are you okay?"

_Oh, crap._ It was Rachael again. Sam's own fault - he _had_ suggested they meet near here. Sam got to his feet, still looking for John. He walked toward his friends.

"What happened?" Rachael gushed. "That was a heck of a fall!"

Sam ignored her concern. "Guys, better move back. The fire's going to..." Before Sam could finish, an explosion behind him made the explanation unnecessary. A column of fire shot upward above the funhouse. A smaller fireball blew out into the space where Sam had just been. He stared in horror at the burning structure. Was his father still inside?

He was almost ready to run back in to search, when he saw John a short distance away. Sam met his father's eyes, letting his relief show.

_Dean?_ John mouthed.

Sam nodded toward the cars. John nodded and told Sam with a gesture to stay where he was. Sam signalled an _okay_ and turned to the others. "There were a couple of kids trapped inside when the fire started," he explained. "I went to help."

"Did you? Help, I mean?" Rachael was gazing at the burning funhouse.

Sam nodded. "Yeah, they got out. I went back to make sure there was no one else when I heard something blow." He gazed up at the bright flames. "Wild, huh?" It was difficult to keep his tone casual.

"I don't know," a new voice said, "if that's incredibly brave or the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

Sam turned to the speaker. "I'd go with dumb," he smiled.

Rachael said, "Sam, this is Jessica."

Sam knew. He'd seen her around, and he liked her, but this was a hell of a way to begin a blind date. He smiled again, feeling awkward suddenly. "Hi, Jessica. I...uh...I didn't expect to fall for you so literally."

She laughed. "Do lines like that really work?"

Sam figured the smooth response would be something like _maybe you can let me know later_, but instead he said, "No, I suck at improv. But seriously, guys, this fire is gonna spread. I think we should get out of here before we end up spending our date in the ER."

"Sounds like a plan." Jessica offered him her hand and Sam took it, leading her, and the others away from the fire. He could hear the sirens of the fire trucks in the distance.

"Your pocket is ringing," Jessica said.

Sam pulled out his phone. "Dean, where are you?"

"At the car without my freaking keys. But you know that. Can you talk?"

"Uh..." Sam glanced at Jessica, "no."

"Okay, just listen. Dad's gonna take me to a medic he knows about two hours drive away. Will you take care of my car until I can come back for her?"

"Sure, but, Dean..."

"Dude, you're like a mother hen! I'm okay, Dad's okay. I'll call you in a couple of days."

"Jerk." Sam retorted.

"Bitch. Relax, Sammy. We made demon barbeque; it's Miller Time. Have fun with your college buddies and I'll see you in a few days."

Sam had no choice but to agree. But Dean was right. The hunt was over, no one else was going to be hurt by this demon. He could relax for a while. "Okay," he said.

"Take care of my car, you hear. There better not be a scratch on her when I - "

_Now who's a mother hen?_ "Relax, dude. I've got it." Sam pocketed the phone. "Well," he said to his friends, "looks like I've got a really great car for a couple of days. Anyone want a lift back to college?"

***

The house was a ramshackle cottage in the middle of an isolated field. John was out of the truck almost before it had fully stopped, and hurried to the front door. Dean wondered if anyone even lived here: he saw no car, no lights. The pain in his arm was the only thing keeping him awake. Pain does that. Pain wears you down, until you're so tired you could drop where you stand, and at the same time it keeps you conscious, prevents you from getting any useful rest.

Dean cradled his broken hand against his chest and slowly climbed out of the truck.

John pounded on the door. "Gretchen!" he called.

"Dad, I don't think there's anyone..." Dean began, but right then the door opened.

It revealed a woman wearing a tattered bathrobe over a nightgown. Her hair was white. She had a shotgun in her hand, aimed at both of them.

"Gretchen," John said warmly.

She smiled suddenly. "Johnny, you should warn a girl."

"If you had a phone, I'd have called. We need help, Gret."

"I didn't take this for a social call." She turned her eyes to Dean and her smile vanished. "I hope you didn't get me up for a broken arm."

"This is my son, Dean," John said. "The arm needs attention, but there is more. You should see, Gretchen. It'll be quicker than the explanation."

Gretchen lowered the shotgun and stood back from the door. "Come in."

Dean followed his father into the cottage. "Johnny?" he said, teasing.

"Never argue with a woman who's a better shot than you are," John said.

Twenty minutes later, Dean was sitting in a chair in Gretchen's kitchen, with an ice pack on his left hand and a bottle of whiskey in his right, stripped to the waist while the old woman examined the cuts on his chest.

Dean felt uncomfortable under Gretchen's intense gaze. She leaned even closer, so he got a whiff of peach-scented soap, and traced one of the marks with a long finger. Finally, she turned to John, who was leaning against the kitchen wall, near the door.

"I haven't seen this in thirty years," she began.

"Cut through the mystical shit for me, Gretchen."

She nodded. "There are two ways to lose your soul to a demon, John. One is to agree to the loss, to make a bargain. The other is to have it stolen. These marks dedicate the wearer's soul to a devil."

"Lady, quit talkin' about me like I'm not here!" Dean demanded. Pain made him irritable, but damn it, he was sitting right here and she was looking at him and talking to his dad like he was a thing not a person.

Gretchen turned to Dean. "I apologise," she said, though it didn't sound too sincere. "Dean, you're up the proverbial creek without a paddle as long as the symbols remain on your skin."

Dean gaped at her. Was she saying what it sounded like? The demon was gone, wasn't it?

"How do we erase them?" John asked.

"What are the chances of this demon coming after Dean now?"

"Zero," John answered. "At least until it crawls back out of hell."

"Then it's best to let it heal naturally." She dragged a chair from beneath the kitchen table and sat down beside Dean. "The key is to ensure the marks heal without scarring. I can give you something to use but cold cream or even plain olive oil will do as well. You must treat the cuts every day until you no longer see the wounds. It will minimise the damage."

Dean saw the trap. "Minimise means you can't fix it completely," he pointed out.

"That depends on how easily your skin scars. Everyone is different, my boy. Give the natural healing a chance. If the symbols remain visible on your skin in four to six months, you'll have to consider other ways."

"Other ways?" Dean repeated.

John answered for her. "Covering one scar with another. We'd have to burn them out." John's carefully neutral tone told Dean how much he didn't like that idea. Hell, neither did Dean!

"Unless you could learn to love a nice, bold tattoo, yes," Gretchen agreed.

_I could live with it,_ Dean thought, but he looked at his dad. John didn't look happy. "Dad?"

"I don't like the idea of leaving you vulnerable for months," John admitted.

"But I'm not!" Dean protested. "I mean, this doesn't give the demon control over me or anything. It's only if I die. Right?"

"Yes." John and Gretchen answered together.

"Then I'm okay," Dean decided.

John shook his head. "What have I told you about overconfidence?"

"Dad, dying ain't on my list of things to do this year, okay? This is a dangerous gig, but if it happens, it happens. Healing burns would stop me hunting with you. That ain't happening."

Gretchen laughed suddenly; the sound seemed very out of place. "He's your son, Johnny," she explained.

"Yes, he is."


	10. Chapter 10

#### A Week Later

It was dark by the time they reached Palo Alto.

"Aren't you comin'?" Dean asked, his hand on the half-open door of the truck. Dean seemed back to his usual self. A new cast on his left arm was the only outward sign of all he'd been through. The scars, internal and external, would take longer to heal, but they weren't visible. John worried, a little, about how easily Dean wore that mask.

John blamed himself for Dean's injuries. He had been a fool to expect Dean to stay home like an invalid just because his wrist was broken. John had been too protective and he'd almost lost Dean because of that. He wouldn't make that mistake again. Dean was a man of action. He needed that.

"Dad?" Dean said again.

John realised he'd been silent for too long. He glanced over to his son, about to answer. Dean gestured toward the pathway ahead of them.

Sammy was there, crossing the road hand-in-hand with a girl. From inside the truck, John couldn't see her face, but she was young, her long hair bouncing as she walked without a care in the world. Sammy was smiling, relaxed and happy. They reached the other side of the road and stopped walking. Sam brushed her hair back from her face and kissed her.

"Sammy, you sly dog," Dean remarked.

Perhaps all Dean saw was little Sammy all growed up. John saw something else. The campus setting suited Sammy. He seemed at home here, and he seemed happy. Watching Sammy with the girl made John think of his first few dates with Mary: the days when marriage wasn't on either of their minds, the days when they began falling in love.

When Sam called Dean about a supernatural threat in Palo Alto, John thought it was a chance to bring Sammy back into the family, where he would be safe. Watching his son, he understood, finally, that there was more than one kind of safety. Sammy called; John could take comfort from that. He was still John's son. The work he did on the hunt was very good. In his heart, Sammy was a hunter. It wasn't the life John wanted for either of his boys. Sammy deserved this time, this oasis. It would be over soon enough. The signs were already building for those who knew what to look for. It would be a few years before the storm, but it was coming.

Sam and the girl parted company. She stood on the path, watching for a moment as Sam walked away. Then she headed into the nearest building.

"Go ahead, Dean," John said.

"He'll want to see you, Dad."

"I said, go."

***

Dean followed Sam until he turned the corner out of sight of the truck. They'd parked a few blocks away from Sam's building: that seemed to be where Sam was headed.

Dean called after him. "Sammy!"

Sam whirled around. "Dean! Oh, my god. Are you okay?"

Dean hurried to catch up with his brother. He held up his left hand, showing off the cast. "I'm stuck with this for another month, but yeah, I'm awesome." He grinned. "Nice chick, by the way. Smokin'. I didn't know you had it in you."

Sam glared at him. "Are you gonna tell me what happened? Why haven't you returned my calls? Dean..."

There had been no cell signal at Gretchen's place. Dean got Sam's voicemails only when they left, and by then they were on the road to Palo Alto so he hadn't called. "Dude, I told you I'd be back for my car. What's the problem?" He fell into step beside Sam, heading toward Sam's building.

Sam glanced around, checking no one was near. "Dean, at the carnival, that thing..."

Dean hadn't wanted the reminder. "It was you. Yeah. Demons lie, Sam. It was just screwing with my head."

"Did _you_ kill it?"

Dean understood, then. "No, Sammy. I thought it was you. I thought you were possessed. Dad shot it."

Sam nodded. "He saw me outside, so he knew it wasn't me. Hell, Dean, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left alone you in there."

Dean shook his head. "It took both of us to screw this one up, Sam. It turned out alright, though. Where's my car?"

Sam grinned and tossed the keys into the air for Dean to catch. "Parked behind my dorm. Where's Dad?"

Dean hesitated, then lied. "He's planning our next job. Look, Sam, I've got to go." They were outside Sam's building now and Dean glimpsed the Impala in the lot behind the building. Safe and sound. _I missed you, baby._

"Dean..." Sam began, but said nothing more. He didn't need to say it. Dean could see it all in his look. Was the hunt the only reason Dean had come? Were they even still brothers?

Damn it, if Dad would just _talk_ to Sammy, they might still have a chance to be a family again.

But all Dean said was, "See you around, Sammy."

"Yeah."

"Stay in touch, okay. I'll mail you that Zeppelin poster."

Sam smiled. "You do and I'll burn it. Zeppelin sucks."

"Zeppelin _rules_! You wouldn't know good music if it bit you in your ass."

"Whatever, dude." Sam looked like he wanted to add something, but he just smiled again. "See ya." He walked away.

_See ya, Sammy._ Dean climbed into his car and rummaged around for Zeppelin IV. He turned the volume up loud enough to drown his thoughts. He started the car and drove out to rendezvous with John.

Tomorrow, they would be in Oregon.

***

Sam unlocked the door to his room. The room was empty; not unexpected on a Saturday night.

In the drawer beside his bed, there was a small collection of photographs: the only things of his family Sam packed when he left two years earlier. He took the photos out, handling them carefully, like precious china.

The first was taken when Sam was thirteen. It was a tiny picture from one of those mall photo-booths. Dean had needed a photo for something - a fake ID, probably, though Sam couldn't remember - and they'd taken an extra strip of them both, playing around in front of the camera. This one showed Sam pulling a face at the camera while Dean made rude gestures behind his back. They were both in high spirits that day and the photograph was one of the least crazy stunts they'd pulled.

The second picture was much older. It was taken by Pastor Jim; they'd spent Christmas with him when Sam was three years old. In the photograph, John sat in an easy chair beside the Christmas tree, with Sam on his knee. Dean was on the floor, not looking at the camera, but studying the multi-tooled pocket knife that had been John's Christmas gift to him. John was smiling at the camera, the odd, sad smile that said so much about him.

The last photograph also showed John's smile, but this was very different. Sam had no idea who took this picture of his parents, but the photo showed them relaxed and happy, both laughing at the camera. Sam had never seen his dad smile like that in real life. Only in this picture.

He replaced the first two photos in the drawer, but propped the third up beside his bed. He really should buy a frame for the photograph. He needed to remember that there was a reason his dad did all this.

The ring of his cell phone shattered the quiet of the room. Sam grabbed for the phone. "Hello?"

"Hey, Sammy."

"Dad?" Sam sat up, startled.

"I wanted to say well done. Dean told me your groundwork was excellent."

Sam knew better than to take a compliment from his father at face value. The implied criticism - the groundwork was good, _but..._ \- shot home. Sam kept his tone even and waited for the other boot to drop. "Thanks."

John didn't disappoint him. "But you left Dean alone and he could have been killed. There's no room for mistakes in this job, Sammy."

_Great. Just fucking great._ "Dad, if you just called to - "

"I called," John interrupted, "to make something clear to you. I meant what I said two years ago, Sammy. If you're not with us all the way, you can't be part of this family. You would put us at risk, and what happened last week should prove that to you."

The words were a punch in Sam's gut. He didn't answer.

"All or nothing, Sammy. So don't call again. Not me, or Dean."

Sam turned off his phone without speaking again.

**~ The End ~**

A fanmix of the music referenced in this story is available [in my journal](http://morgan32.insanejournal.com/26324.html).


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